


the midnight that lasted forever (that old saying about lovers in wartime)

by majesdane



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. | A werewolf virus has swept across the globe. Those infected have become the majority, turning humans into a dwindling minority who are desperately trying to fight back. When two werewolf hunters, Whiskey and November, hear about a rash of brutal human slayings in Los Angeles, they set out to investigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the gun in the stars (we are in some old film about lovers in wartime)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/437890) by [majesdane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane). 



> Seriously AU. This is actually an AU of an AU. It could be better.

this was freedom. losing all hope was freedom.  
\-- _fight club_ , chuck palahniuk

 

 

 

It was a Sunday when they first arrived in Glen River, rolling up in a sleek black Impala, their windows tinted from cigarette smoke. The center of town was DeWitt's, a rundown bar that had seen much better days; they'd banged open the door, swaggering in like they were gunslingers from the Old West. They weren't shy about showing off the guns they had holstered to their belts: one of them carried an antique Colt that looked like it dated back to the (first) Civil War. The other one sported a newer weapon, a .9mm, Smith and Wesson model.  
   
No one knew their real names.  
   
The older one went by the name of Whiskey, and though no one knew for certain, people said it was on account of her favoring a shot of single malt Scotch above all else, and her personality fit the drink. Sour, sullen, always smoking. Sharp, dark eyes. She made enemies faster than she made friends, but one thing that everyone had to agree on was that she was a damn good shot, and really, who gave a fuck about her personal life when she was doing everyone a public service just by being in town. The only person who _could_ tolerate her was a girl called November -- tall, tanned, with auburn hair and surprisingly blessed with a sweeter disposition than her companion. No one knew why she was called November, but the speculation around town gave the explanation that she was simply born in the month; she liked the way it sounded, November had once told someone while at the bar, nursing a lukewarm bottle of Michelob. It rolled off the tongue nicely.  
   
She was younger than Whiskey by almost a good ten years, but it didn't seem to matter; it was obvious that November could match Whiskey on just about anything, every day of the week, including her temper. It wasn't out of the ordinary to see them come walking into the bar on a lazy Tuesday evening looking all banged up -- split lips, black eyes; the works. No one wanted to get involved, but in private everyone talked about it. Most people said that Whiskey and November fought themselves more than they fought the wolves.  
   
But then again, while the hunting Whiskey did was a public service, keeping Whiskey in line could have been considered one too.

;;

   
"Remind me again why we're here," November said from inside the Impala where she was cleaning her gun. "There hasn't been a group of wolves spotted here for weeks now; we should be in the city, some place where we can actually be getting things done."  
   
Whiskey blew out a long stream of bluish smoke around her cigarette, held between her teeth. It was unusually hot out for a late October afternoon; she'd shrugged off her leather jacket and laid it on the hood of the Impala beside her, but she was still sweaty. She hated the way her tank-top clung to her, sticky with sweat. That, along with November's incessant talking, was beginning to wear on her nerves.  
   
"Whiskey," November said, a bit louder this time, sounding annoyed. "What are we doing here?"  
   
"What do you think," Whiskey exhaled another mouthful of smoke before flicking her cigarette away. She watched it hit the pavement once and bounce, before rolling to a stop a few feet away, still smoldering. "We're here for the wolves."  
   
"And like I was saying," November kicked the car door open a bit wider and climbed out, freshly polished gun glinting in the sunlight as she strapped it back into the holster. "I don't get it. There's nothing here for us to do, Whiskey. The wolves don't care about an out-of-the-way shithole like this place; it'll be the last target on their lists. We should be at the forefront, in the city."  
   
Whiskey rolled her eyes. She was itching for another smoke, but she had a limited supply of cigarettes left and she was trying to preserve her stash for as long as possible. "Other people are fighting those battles. If everyone's in the city, who will be out in the country to protect everyone else?"  
   
November sighed, leaning against the hood of the car. "I just think we could be more useful."  
   
"We're keeping people safe. Isn't that enough for you?"  
   
"I'm just saying. It's been so long since we've had a proper fight. And when the time comes, well," November sighed again, rooting around in her pockets for cigarettes and a match. She lit up, taking an eager drag of it before offering it to Whiskey, who shook her head, reaching for her flask instead. "I'm afraid that when the times comes, we won't be able to fight like we used to."  
   
Whiskey took a long swallow of scotch, wincing a bit as it slid down her throat, settling heavily in her stomach. If only it wasn't so goddamn hot out. "Fuck me," she said, taking another quick drink. "If you've fought once, you've fought a hundred times; you never forget how it goes. It's like riding a bike."  
   
November's lips quirked up into a smile. "I don't know how to ride a bike."  
   
There was the sound of metal hitting metal, as Whiskey screwed the cap back onto her flask and dropped it onto the hood of the Impala, reaching forward and knitting her fingers into the front of November's dusty gray shirt with the sleeves cut off, pulling her in for a rough kiss.  
   
"Well," she said, her lips just hovering above November's. "I guess you're just fucked then."  
   
"In more ways than one," November replied coyly, and allowed herself to be kissed again.

;;

The wolves, for all intents and purposes, were a science experiment gone wrong.  
   
Technically speaking, they were werewolves, since they fit the profile, but that specification was seen as more superstitious than anything else -- after all, this was man-made, scientific -- so they were only known as wolves. No one knew the details about the experiment, of course, but the little that _was_ known about the Metamorphosis Project (as it was commonly referred to) was that the military had been involved with major biological companies working on a project that involved DNA splicing: an attempt to create super-soldiers.  
   
Typical, Whiskey had thought, when she'd first heard the news. Of course the military was behind it; they always managed to find a way to fuck things up. And, of course, the project hadn't stopped with just creating a living example of DNA splicing -- no, they'd had to go and create a serum to go along with it. A real hands-off approach.  
   
With the serum came disease, passed along through the usual ways -- saliva, blood -- until what started as a controlled test group turned into an outbreak. And from the outbreak sprang an epidemic. It washed over the United States first, but it quickly spread to the surrounding continental countries, and from there, to the world. The cities and their suburban areas were hit the hardest, while outlying towns stayed fairly outbreak-free -- for the most part anyway.  
   
Whiskey had never expected her town to get hit, especially when she jumped ship in New York City and moved to a quiet little village in Vermont. Upstate, slightly north of Lake Champlain, it was a milling town that had clearly seen better days. North Hero it was called; Whiskey'd found the name amusingly ironic. She'd settled in quietly -- as quietly as a stranger _could_ settle in a new town during a world-wide epidemic. Once they'd seen she was clean, though, they'd left her alone.  
   
She'd shot wolves on her trip upstate, but she hadn't actually _seen_ someone become one until North Hero. They'd been bitten while on a trip out of town and they'd brought the disease back with them. Whiskey, who'd seen how quickly the disease could spread, got him isolated. For the safety of the town, she'd said, lips set in a hard, thin line, fingers twitching, ready just in case she needed to draw her gun. Everyone reacted to the disease differently; some changed right away, others didn't until days or even weeks later.  
   
Three days later, the man changed.  
   
Whiskey had been there when he had, half-asleep. They'd put him in the county jail, locked him right up in case he turned violent -- which he would; Whiskey knew that much. He'd been pretty quiet until a little after midnight, and then when the sky cleared up and moonlight fell through the tiny jail cell window, things had turned bad. The transformation was disgusting in one sense and amazing in another. Whiskey, Colt in hand, on her feet, watched incredulously as his body stretched and popped, joints snapping out of place and realigning themselves. There was the sound of fabric tearing as his body became too large for his clothes.  
   
His eyes glowed yellow-red in the dim lighting of the room; Whiskey shot him dead before he even finished changing.  
   
Not like it mattered. As soon as he was dead, the transformation reversed itself, until the man looked just as he'd come; bearing a dark purple bite mark on his left shoulder, eyes bloodshot. Cold and staring up lifelessly at the ceiling. Whiskey had unlocked his cell and nudged him dutifully with her boot, just to make sure he was dead; he hadn't responded.  
   
After that, she'd become known around the area as the local wolf-killing expert.  
   
She wasn't an expert by any means, but she was fearless, and that probably counted for at least half of it. And her parents had been big on Second Amendment rights, so she knew her way around her gun, for the most part. She'd fallen out of practice; but a few more weeks of target work, with both still and moving objects alike had drastically improved her skills.  It ended being almost her job, defending the town and the surrounding land areas; she earned a fair bit of money from protecting those who didn't know how to protect themselves.  
   
Regardless, the whole thing seemed utterly ridiculous to her, after having spent seven years of her life going to an Ivy League college to become a doctor. She often thought -- bitterly, of course, always bitterly -- that she should have gone straight into being a hunter and skipped school entirely. If only she'd known, then, that the world was going to turn out this way.  
   
But in the end, no matter what she did, no matter how many wolves she killed, things were still spinning out of control. She couldn't be everywhere at once, and the wolf population was growing rapidly, which accounted for increased wolf attacks on the few remaining pure humans that were still left.  
   
Slowly but surely, North Hero began to turn into a ghost town. Those who hadn't been killed by the wolves (or hadn't been killed for _being_ a wolf) were beginning to move out. North Hero wasn't a fortress by any means, and there wasn't a way to keep the growing wolf population in check. As it was, the wolves had finally organized themselves, cutting down those who stood in their way to obtain a position of power.  
   
Once the wolves had figured out their transformations could be controlled, done only at will, it was all downhill from there. It wasn't a disease any longer, or a curse. It was a weapon. The disease had spread to virtually everywhere by the early spring of '29, and those who remained unaffected were now considered the enemies instead of the blessed.  
   
She met November on a hot day in August, some months after she'd moved further south, from North Hero to Brookline, which was a town even smaller than North Hero. A small group of well-armed resistance fighters had holed up there and, for the most part, it remained virtually untouched by the wolves.  
   
Whiskey kept house in an apartment above an abandoned mechanic shop, with her Impala locked in the garage below. The shop was nearly four blocks away from the center of town, completely out of the way from everything else, but Whiskey didn't mind it at all. She was well-prepared in case of a surprise wolf attack, and being apart from the rest of the town meant that she'd be less likely targeted for a robbery -- drifter groups were becoming more and more common among the humans that were left and most of them were violent. Gang-like.  
   
But despite all of her precautions, she was startled out of her sleep one evening by the sound of glass breaking. It was a muffled sound -- obviously someone had tried to make the break-in as silent as possible and if she hadn't only just dozed off, she probably wouldn't have even heard it. She grabbed her Colt from the nightstand, tugging on her jeans and slipping into her boots. Whoever it was, they were working alone, as there was no guard by the garage door keeping check that she was still asleep.  
   
Whiskey'd kicked open the door and pointed the gun straight at the driver's side window, where a girl in dark clothes was bent over the ignition, no doubt trying to jump start it. Whiskey cocked the gun and the girl jumped, startled; she looked up to find herself staring into the barrel of Whiskey's revolver.  
   
She'd rolled down the window, cool as could be, and had flashed Whiskey a cheeky smile. "Hello," she'd said, leaning one arm on the door and another on the steering wheel.  
   
"What are you doing?" Whiskey had asked, keeping the gun trained on her.  
   
"Well," the girl had drawled, opening the car door and slipping out with what looked like practiced ease. Leaning against the Impala, she glanced back between Whiskey, herself, and the car. The corner of her mouth had turned  up into a smirk. "It looks as though I'm aiming to take something that belongs to you."  
   
They'd fucked in the backseat of the Impala, windows up, not even bothering to undress, just hands slipped down the fronts of jeans, fingers working furiously. Whiskey could feel her wrist cramping up from the awkward position; she'd bitten down on the girl's bare shoulder.  
   
"You're not a wolf, are you?" the stranger had asked later, sounding amused, checking out her newly forming bruise in the rearview mirror. She leaned back into the passenger seat, withdrew a pack of smokes and a box of matches from the front pocket of her jacket. "I figure you're not, given that you're way out here like this. But it doesn't hurt to ask. You can never tell with people these days."  
   
She struck a match; Whiskey watched the flame flare up, the yellow-orange glow of the end of the girl's cigarette, the puff of gray-blue smoke she exhaled. She met Whiskey's eyes in the mirror, exhaling smoke through her nose. "You want one?"  
   
"Please," Whiskey said, and the girl lit one for her, passing it back. "I'm not a wolf," she'd said, taking an eager drag of the cigarette, the smoke burning her lungs a bit. "You see any marks on me?"  
   
The stranger had chuckled. "Maybe it's just in a place I haven't seen yet."  
   
Whiskey made a _hmph_ -ing sound and went on smoking in silence. They had sat like that for some time, until November had stretched out with a yawn, glancing into the backseat at Whiskey, who was now sitting sprawled out, toying with her gun, popping out the chamber and then spinning it around before snapping it back into place.  
   
"You know, I don't know your name," the girl'd said, after a moment.  
   
Whiskey didn't look up. "Do you need to know?"  
   
"Charming. I'll start." She extended her hand, through the seats. Whiskey shook it reluctantly as the girl went on with her introduction. "Name's Maddie. Well, Madeline Costley, if you want to be specific. Twenty years old, from outside the old New York City. Family's dead or a wolf, etc, etc; you know how it goes."  
   
"You tell people your real name?" Whiskey eyed her warily. "I didn't think real humans did that any more. Too dangerous."  
   
"Well, what's _your_ name then? Or do you just not have one?"  
   
"It's Whiskey. Like the drink."  
   
Maddie's grin had never wavered. "I don't much care for whiskey."  
   
Whiskey had smirked, setting her gun aside for the moment. The girl seemed alright. Maybe. "It's an acquired taste," she said, and leaned forward, resting her arms on the passenger seat. She wondered why the girl was out on her own, especially given her age. It wasn't _that_ unusual to see solitary drifters, given the circumstances, but most pure humans stuck together in groups, more so if they were younger.  
   
"Are you going to stick around?" She'd asked, brushing the hair away from Maddie's neck and kissing the bare skin there. "Or are you just part of a larger group?"  
   
"Oh, I'm a loner," Maddie said, tapping herself out another cigarette and lighting up; when she tipped her head back to exhale, Whiskey kissed her neck again, one hand slipping casually down the front of Maddie's shirt. Her hand found Maddie's breast and she squeezed lightly, feeling the nipple grow hard against her palm. Barring tonight, she hadn't had physical contact with another human in a while -- especially when it came to sex.  
   
"But I could be persuaded to join someone," Maddie continued on, smirking, before twisting her head around to kiss the corner of Whiskey's mouth. "You know, if the right opportunity presented itself."  
   
"Mm." Whiskey was distracted by Maddie pushing up into her hand. She certainly knew how to be persuasive. "I don't know anything about you," Whiskey had absently, against Maddie's shoulder, gaining a little bit of the working part of her brain back as Maddie took a sharp drag of her cigarette. "For all I know, you could be a wolf. Or maybe someone working for the police, a turncoat."  
   
Maddie crushed her smoke out in the small ashtray on the dashboard. "If I was a wolf, I'd have bitten you already." She undid a button on her shirt, leaning back more against the seat with a sigh as Whiskey's fingers danced across her skin, moving up further to trace the outline of Maddie's collarbone.  
   
Whiskey pressed her lips to the space below Maddie's ear.  
   
"And second, you'll just have to trust me."  
   
"Trust needs to earned."  
   
Maddie's lips curved up into a smirk. "I think you'll find I'm quite good as working for things," she said and pulled Whiskey's hand down lower.

;;

They'd split after the sun came up, with Maddie promising to return soon.  
   
Whiskey hadn't actually expected her to come back -- and she'd be torn in her feelings regarding the whole situation; on one hand, it'd be nice to a companion, but on the other hand, she could prove to be burden (or worse, Whiskey thought, a nuisance) -- but Maddie come trooping back in just as the sun was beginning to set.  
   
"Don't you have a car?" Whiskey asked, leaning against the door frame, smoking.  
   
Maddie had tossed her small pack on the ground with a groan, stretching. "Well, if I did, do you think I'd've been trying to nick your Impala earlier?" She shoved her hands into her pockets, relaxed. "I did have one, but it broke down a few days ago. Beat up old Toyota Civic that my parents gave to me when I was sixteen. Piece of crap. That's why I'm stuck here; I haven't been able to find a new ride."  
   
"Well, they're not exactly in abundance." Whiskey flicked away her cigarette. "Are you sure that you want to come with me?"  
   
"Why not?" Maddie's grin was wolfish. Whiskey was suddenly thrown back to only hours earlier, when Maddie had pressed her against the cool, leather seats of the Impala, wearing that same grin as she undid Whiskey's belt and jeans. She cleared her throat and reached for another smoke, more interested in the ground than meeting Maddie's eyes.  
   
Whiskey sighed, glancing up for a moment. "It's going to be dangerous, you know. Not like traveling with a group."  
   
Maddie's grin hadn't wavered. "Good thing I don't have any experience traveling with groups, then."

;;

She liked being with November, but she also liked doing things her way, which November wasn't keen on. The only thing November hadn't fought her on was her name, but within the first two week of knowing each other, November had a broken nose and Whiskey had a black eye, November could more than hold her own in a fight, which was something Whiskey was secretly pleased about, since all the other people she'd known before November were, for the most part, pussies. And November was brave, too.  
   
After all, the only reason they'd met was because November had tried to steal her car.  
   
As the weeks continued, their fights became less of a daily occurrence and more of just something that happened every so often. Of course by this point in time, they'd earned a reputation in town for playing a bit rough with each other, but the way Whiskey saw it, it only helped -- and not hurt -- their reputation. For the most part, people in town were afraid of them; they kept their distance, lowered their voices when Whiskey and November came into a room. It helped, too, that they were the hunters who protected Glen River.  
   
Nothing was more solid than the loyalty you earned by keeping someone alive.  
   
Whiskey kept to herself; November was the one who liked to socialize. She made friends with the local mechanic, a tall, wiry guy named Jack, who'd been in Glen River from almost day one. Jack knew some people who knew some people and he liked to talk. Every so often he fed November information about what new things were happening with the wolves. Whiskey, on the other hand, relied solely on the information she was given from Adelle, the owner of DeWitt's, and her assistant, Ivy. They were pretty much the only ones in town with who Whiskey shared mutual respect.  
   
The first year or so when Whiskey and November were working together as Glen River hunters, they were up to their necks in wolves. It had been a bit of a challenge at times, as they were the only hunters around for miles and miles, so often they were called to do work in a town not their own, just like Whiskey had when she'd lived up in North Hero. But they'd quickly established themselves as a force to be reckoned with, and after the intital cleanup of Glen River and its surrounding areas, things had slowed down a bit.  
   
As of late, though, things had ground to a halt. Slow was one thing, but they hadn't seen a wolf in nearly two months now.  
   
Whiskey knew this was why November was restless but, if she was honest, she preferred this to how things had used to be. Before the government had finally put its foot down and taken control of things -- even though they were wolves themselves -- it had just been chaos. Those who'd become wolves were running amok, just attacking anyone and anything that they came across. You had to be vigilant at all times.  
   
But now it was easier.  
   
Well, easier and more difficult all at once. Easier in the sense that the wolf attacks that _did_ happen were less violent, more organized. The difficult part was that pure humans were the minority now, and it seemed as if the wolf minority planned to eradicate them entirely. Publicly, the government supported peace between the two branches of civilization, but privately they were constantly sending out sets of troops to find and turn those who who were still poor. But Whiskey had learned early on that as long as you kept your head down and stayed out of the way, the possibility that you'd be sought after was much less. For now, anyway.  
   
November stomped into their room then, dripping wet. Whiskey looked up.  
   
"Got caught in a sudden downpour," November explained, stripping down until she was left in just her underwear, hanging her wet clothes over chairs to dry. She rummaged around in her pack, pulling out an over-sized shirt and tugging it on. "But, I did learn something today," she continued, crossing the room to sit on a worn-out easy chair across from where Whiskey was on the bed. "I went into town, you know, just to check it out, since it's been a week. And I ran into Jack -- you know him, lanky, brown hair, lots of tattoos -- and he said that he'd gotten word from a friend about something. Happening in LA, I mean."  
   
Whiskey narrowed her eyes, sitting up a bit straighter.  "What?"  
   
"I don't know exactly," November said, with a slight shrug, playing with a strand of wet hair, curling it around her index finger. "But I heard there's a new wolf team gathering now. Sort of like special ops or whatever. Real mean. They're gaining a reputation. I guess that they're more interested in killing people than turning them."  
   
"Why would they do that? Once people have been turned, they're no longer a threat."  
   
November shrugged again, stretching once before pushing herself out of the chair to go fetch her cigarettes from the kitchen table. She lit two, came back to the bed and handed one off to Whiskey. "I don't know the _why_ , I just know that they have been. That's what Jack said anyway. Told me that when they're done with a place, they always leave a mark. A calling card."  
   
"Oh?" Whiskey arched an eyebrow. "Now that _is_ interesting. What is it that they leave?"  
   
"Like, a fish." November gestured vaguely. "And sort of like, a circle, but not closed off all the way. The tail ends branch out at the bottom."  
   
Whiskey tried to imagine it in her head. Figures like a fish and a circle -- what could they be? They sounded like they could be some sort of symbol, maybe letters or some sort. And then she remembered college, when she'd taken a course in Ancient Greek, to fulfill her history requirements. "It's Alpha and Omega," she said, exhaled a stream of smoke and glancing over at November, whose face was clouded with confusion. "It's Greek," Whiskey clarified. "Alpha means 'the beginning,' or 'the first one.' Omega signifies the end. Death."  
   
"Well, that's strange," November said, sitting down on the bed and reclining back. "Why would they leave that?"  
   
"Why leave anything?" Whiskey paused. "It's a warning. And it's also probably something simple to work out; I'd guess it's just their names."  
   
"Or code names," November suggested, after a second. "Jack said they were a military branch after all."  
   
Whiskey lay back, stretching out on the bed with a groan. Jack was mostly reliable at best. By the time he heard anything, it'd usually passed through multiple channels and couldn't be trusted. Sometimes he came through with real information, but more often than not it was just talk from people who were paranoid enough to work up government conspiracies over anything. There was only one person who could be trusted about these sort of things, but Whiskey was reluctant to make _that_ call. It probably wasn't even worth it.  
   
On the other hand, they always _could_ go down to DeWitt's and give her source a call. The worst that could happen was that Halverson would refuse a visit; she had enough disdain for the very government she worked for to keep her mouth shut about less than legal friendships that she had. Yes, Whiskey thought, reaching forward to play with November's hair, feeling its softness against her skin. Halverson would be her best bet. Then they could just put this issue to rest.  
   
"Come on," Whiskey said, pushing herself off the bed and searching around for her boots, tying her hair back into a loose ponytail. "We're going."  
   
November sat up. "Going where?"  
   
"DeWitt's." Whiskey began to lace up her boots, hearing the creak of the bed as November sighed and stood up. "I've got to make a phone call."  
   
"Is that sort of thing safe?" November raised an eyebrow at Whiskey before bending down to rummage in her bag for a clean shirt. "It could be bugged."  
   
"It's fine. I talked to Ivy last week; she told me she'd installed some special equipment. Said that it was completely untraceable. And, well," Whiskey tugged on her jacket, checking to make sure her Colt was in its holster. She slipped her knife into her left boot, the metal cool against her skin. "She is the tech expert."  
   
They made their way downstairs and out the front door, to where the Impala was waiting. It was still raining, but less so than an hour prior. Now it was barely at a drizzle. Whiskey started up the car as November climbed in, slamming the door shut behind her, running a hand through her still damp hair.   
   
"Who are you planning on calling?" she asked, as they pulled onto the street. "And why are we driving? DeWitt's is only a block and a half away."  
   
Whiskey took a left, letting the Impala roll lazily down the street, still slick with rain. "We might have to make a trip," she said, just as they came to a stop in front of the bar, which was looking gloomier than usual, probably due the combination of rain and the still untempered heat.  
   
DeWitt's was unsurprisingly empty inside, except for Paul and his friends, who were always there, no matter what. An antique jukebox was droning on quietly in the background, while the TV above the bar was on mute. On screen, a news anchor was talking about some incident in Winesburg; Whiskey couldn't be bothered with it. Ivy, who was wiping down the bar, looked up when Whiskey and November walked in.  
   
"Haven't seen you two in a while," she said, straightening up and setting down her dishrag. "Can I get you something? A beer, maybe? We just got a shipment in the other day. Real good stuff."  
   
"We're just here to make a phone call," Whiskey said, jerking her head in the direction of the back room. "Where's Adelle?"  
   
Ivy shrugged. "Out. Where is Adelle usually? Her name's only on the building; I'm the one who actually runs this place. Come on," she said, stepping out from behind the door. "I'll let you in. Will it take long?"  
   
Whiskey shook her head. "Only a minute or two." She turned to November. "You stay out here and keep watch. It's unlikely anything will happen, but I don't like to take chances. Just sit and have a beer or something. You could talk to Paul."  
   
November made a face and Whiskey laughed as she turned to follow Ivy into the back room. Given that telephones were rare among purebreds, thanks to the fact that they could be easily traced by the government and that Ivy's was specially designed to prevent that sort of thing, Ivy kept it under lock and key. Only she and Adelle knew the keycode combination, and they didn't allow people in without good reason. But Whiskey had known Adelle from before -- they'd met once by accident when Whiskey'd been traveling upstate to North Hero and Adelle had been going downstate to who knew where -- and thus was granted some leeway with this unspoken rule.  
   
"If you need anything, just let me know," Ivy was saying, as she punched in the password. The door made a low hissing sound as it was unlocked. "I'll be right outside the door."  
   
"This won't take long," Whiskey said, before slipping into the room. She heard the door close behind her and Ivy's voice in the background, calling out to November to ask she wanted to drink. Steeling herself, Whiskey picked up the receiver and punched in the appropriate phone number.  
   
The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Hello?"  
   
"Hey," Whiskey said. "It's me. I need a favor."

;;

Ten minutes later, they were back in the Impala and on the way to Dover, which was a good three hour drive away from Glen River. The trip took longer because they were forced to take the back roads; the highways were regularly patrolled, but for the most back cops stayed off the back streets. Security on those streets was mostly maintained by whatever wolves were living in the area, but wolves tended to live in the cities -- or close to them, at least -- not small country towns, and both Glen River and Dover were as far away from nearest city as was possible.  
   
Dover was a little town near the lower half of New Hampshire that had at one point in time been a big factory town. That, like most things, had changed once the werewolf virus -- as it was commonly referred to -- had spread. Whiskey had arranged the meeting to take place on the outskirts of Dover; it was the safest place she knew of. Not even pure humans lived there any more, so the chance that she would be seen was slim to none.  
   
Which was something to especially take into consideration when she was meeting with a government agent.  
   
It was dusk when they finally arrived in Dover, the late afternoon sun just hovering behind low, dark clouds.  
   
"Remind me again," November said, as they climbed out of the Impala, slamming the doors shut behind them. The building, an abandoned typewriter factor, loomed ahead of them, dark and imposing. "Who are we meeting?"  
   
"An old friend," Whiskey told her.  
   
"Right." November looked genuinely concerned as Whiskey unsnapped her holster and withdrew her Colt, cocking it. November fished her pistol out of her jacket a second later; Whiskey noticed a slight shake to her hands, wondered why November was so keyed up all of a sudden. "Is it an old friend that you plan on shooting?"  
   
Whiskey slowed her pace, as they neared the front door. It was just the slightest bit open; Whiskey stepped forward and nudged it the rest of the way open with her boot, Colt at the ready. She'd expected them to be the first ones to arrive; she hoped she hadn't led them both right into a trap.  
   
Then again --  
   
November coughed, slightly. Whiskey glared at her, startled. They took a few steps further into the building; aside from the late afternoon sunlight pouring in the back windows, the place was mostly dark. Whiskey squinted, hand tightening on her gun as she waited for her eyes to adjust.  
   
And then the door closed behind them with a sharp _click_.  
   
Whiskey whirled around, ready for a fight. She stared at the once open door until she saw the outline of a figure standing beside it, leaning against the wall.  
   
"Stop it," she growled, relaxing a bit, as the figure came towards them. She was a young-ish looking woman, with long, mousy brown hair that hung straight down. On the tip of her nose sat a pair of horned rimmed glasses; green eyes peered out from over the tops of them. She looked mostly out of the ordinary, except for her left arm, which was clasped to her side in a long, black sleeve; it was a sort of sling that kept her arm in place.  
   
The woman grinned at them. Out of the corner of her eye, Whiskey saw November take a step back, her knuckles white from the death grip she had on her pistol.  
   
"Now, now, Claire," the woman drawled, sounding almost bored. "Is that any way to say hello? I thought you were expecting me. You called."  
   
"You're the one snuck up on us," Whiskey said, putting her gun back in her holster. She motioned for November to do the same; November looked confused, but did as she was instructed. "Bennett. You still haven't learned how to play nice with others, I see."  
   
Bennett's mouth widened into a smile that showed too much teeth. "You look well, Claire," she said her smile never faltering as she moved to the side, circling them. "Or is it Whiskey now? I can't remember." She made a _tsk_ -ing sound. "Still. It is nice to see you again, I must admit. Even under, under these circumstances. And who is this?" Bennett turned her attention to November, meeting her face-to-face. "I'd heard you'd acquired a new traveling companion. A plaything. I didn't think she'd be so -- "  
   
Whiskey's frowned, annoyed. "Bennett."  
   
" -- Skittish." Bennett's smile turned into a mean smirk. She moved in even closer to November, who kept her expression neutral. "I wonder," she said, "Is November really as good as she looks? I'm not so . . . _inclined_ to know myself. But you are. Is she -- "  
   
"That's enough," Whiskey said, annoyed, stepping forward between November and Bennett. She glared down at Bennett, whose expression never wavered. "We've come for information. That's why I called you. We have questions and I _know_ you have answers. Halverson. What is this about a militia group out West? The ones who've been killing purebreds?"  
   
Bennett rolled her eyes. "Oh, _them_ ," she sighed, sounding almost bored. She took a step back, looking up at the ceiling as she played with a strand of hair. "And here I thought you wanted to know something, something interesting."  
   
"So you do have information."

"You already know most of it, probably. Most of it. They're military, yes. They haven't been trained like regular soldiers, though. Not regular soldiers. They're wolves, but the special kind. They weren't infected by the normal strain; they were given it purposely. It's been altered. They aren't like m -- most of us." She flashed them another wolfish grin, eyes glinting in the semi darkness. "They're stronger. Faster. They have all the usual qualities you'd expect. Of course. But Los Angeles is only a trial run."  
   
Whiskey shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. "So that's it, then? That's what this is all about? The government -- or military or who's ever behind this -- is testing out their latest experiment. And when they've accomplished whatever it is they're meant to accomplish, they'll stop? Or move elsewhere?"  
   
Bennett shrugged. "I don't know. It's more up to them than others, though. I believe. They are the ones with the most power, after all."  
   
"So they're a threat."  
   
"To your kind, yes." Bennett examined her nails. "It remains to be seen if they're a threat to us all."  
   
"Our kind?" November echoed, off to Whiskey's side. Whiskey looked at her, trying to convey that this discussion could wait until later. November didn't seem to get the message. "You're -- you're a wolf," she said, looking Bennett up and down, brow furrowed with worry.  
   
Whiskey held up a hand. "It's fine," she told November. "Bennett isn't going to hurt us."  
   
"Yeah?" November took out her gun, brandishing it at Bennett, who stood straight still, looking amused at the whole situation. "And how do you know that? How do _we_ know that? A lot of wolves have promised that they're not dangerous, that they're not going to do anyone harm. They were all liars." Her eyes flashed with anger. "They're all the same."  
   
Bennett's silvery laugh rang out in the thick, sudden silence. "You haven't trained your pet all _that_ well, Claire," she said, looking at them both over the tops of her glasses with a bemused smirk on her face. "Or so it appears."  
   
"This is stupid," Whiskey growled, irritated now. November was acting like an impulsive idiot, as usual, and Bennett had been less than helpful. She'd be even less helpful now after November's outburst; she reveled in having the upper hand, especially when it was so easy to get in the first place.  
   
Whiskey lunged forward and grabbed Bennett by her jacket with one hand, her other hand wrapped around her Colt, which she jabbed warningly into Bennett's side. "There's a full round of silver in here," she said, in a low voice. "You'll be dead in a second. Now you better start fucking talking."  
   
She shoved Bennett back, letting go. Bennett stumbled for a moment then regained herself with a slight cough, smoothing out her clothes as she straightened up, looking annoyed for the first time that afternoon. "I've told you everything that I know," she said, wiping at her mouth. "The D.C. branch hasn't been in contact with the L.A. branch in some time; they're keeping communications to a minimum. Minimum. To keep information from leaking out."  
   
"And that's it?" Whiskey kept her grip on her gun.  
   
"It's more than most people know. If anyone finds out I told you -- "  
   
"They won't."  
   
"These things have a way of getting out." Bennett pulled at her shirt again, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. "Always, always getting out. Now, if you'll excuse me." She turned to go; Whiskey sighed and holstered her Colt. She was dying for a cigarette. November was sulking a few feet behind, hands shoved into her pockets, scowling.  
   
At the door, Bennett turned back.  
   
"Oh, I'd forgotten," she said, a smile once more creeping onto her face. "There is one more thing. I didn't mention. I'm sure you've heard how they're going by the names Alpha and Omega. The end and the beginning. Cute. Karl William Kraft is Alpha's real name. I don't know anything about them. But as for Omega," she chuckled, the light reflecting off her glasses and hiding her eyes. "That would be none other than Caroline Farrell."  
   
Whiskey stiffened. "You're a liar."  
   
"I never lie." Bennett's smile widened. "I'll be seeing you, Whiskey. Claire."  
   
With that, she stepped out the door and vanished into the night without another word.

;;

"What was _that_ about?" November asked when they were back in the Impala, Whiskey turning the key in the ignition and gunning the engine to life. "Who's Caroline?"  
   
Whiskey put the car into drive. "No one."  
   
"Oh, no," November said, jamming in the lighter on the dashboard to heat it up. "You are not going to do this, Whiskey. I have cut you all kinds of slack -- I have never asked you anything personal. Where you're from, how you got to where I met you, what you used to do -- _fuck_ , until two months ago, I didn't even know your real name. But _she_ does? This ‘old friend'? Who, by the way, if you hadn't noticed, is a fucking _wolf_."  
   
"She's not dangerous," Whiskey cut in, as they pulled onto the main road. "I told you that."  
   
"And that's _all_ you've fucking told me." November grabbed the ready lighter, sucking on her cigarette greedily, pressing the car lighter back into place. She slouched in her seat with an irritated sigh, hair falling into her eyes. "Look, Whiskey. You have to understand; you can't keep everything to yourself. There are things that I need to know too."  
   
"Like _what_?"  
   
November exhaled a cloud of smoke, rolling down her window and tapping ash out, as the Impala sped along the cracked, worn pavement. "Like who this Caroline person is, for instance."  
   
Whiskey gripped the steering wheel, one hand on the clutch. "She's just a girl."  
   
"She must be important. Why else would Bennett have mentioned her? And I saw the look on your face -- she means something to you."  
   
"Once," Whiskey corrected her, pulling off the road and putting the Impala into park, dust settling around them. "She meant something to me _once_."  
   
November said nothing, just exhaled two thin streams of bluish smoke through her nose.  
   
Whiskey sighed, undoing her seat belt. She slumped back in her seat, suddenly very tired. "She's just a girl I used to go to school with, that's all. Freemont College, in California. It was the three of us, me, Bennett, and -- and Caroline. We all knew each other. Mostly by accident; Bennett and I had taken courses together. Caroline came along later. She was friends with Bennett first, then me."  
   
"So?"  
   
"So after a while, it sort of -- well, Caroline and I became more than just friends, okay? I don't know exactly why or how it happened. She was just . . . Special. Very charismatic. When she talked to you, paid attention to you, you felt like you were the only person in the world who mattered. You felt like you could be special too."  
   
"But then the wolves came," November flicked away her cigarette. "Didn't they?"  
   
"That was later." Whiskey reached around for her flask, unscrewing it slowly and taking a long gulp of bourbon. The alcohol burned her throat on the way down. She felt it settle in her stomach like fire. She shifted, uncomfortable. November's eyes were still fixed on Whiskey's face, silently asking for more.  
   
"We fell out of touch, Caroline and I, after Freemont. I went to medical school and she -- well, we wanted different things, is all. We were _interested_ in different things. Bennett came along with me to New England. I haven't even spoken to Caroline in years." She took another swig of her drink and put the cap back on her flask with another heavy sigh. "I don't know how she ended up where she is today. But I know that it's not a good thing."  
   
November cracked her knuckles; a nervous habit. "Why not?"  
   
Whiskey snapped her seat belt back on, once more putting the Impala into drive. "Like I said, she's special."  
   
The rest of the drive back to Glen River was spent in silence. November smoked through a pack of cigarettes, which, Whiskey knew, meant she was worried. And she had every right to be. The information that Bennett had supplied them with wasn't much, but it was enough to understand that bad things were going to happen, and sooner, rather than later. The fact that Caroline was caught up in an operation like this --  
   
It saddened Whiskey, more than anything. Caroline could be manipulative and cruel when she wanted to be, but Whiskey had always known her to fight the good fight. Caroline wouldn't have killed people without a second thought, especially not for the government that she'd fought so hard against in college.  
   
Whiskey was thrown back to a moment then, when she and Bennett and Caroline were twenty. Juniors. They were all sitting around in Bennett's tiny, scholarship-funded apartment. Caroline had picked them up Chinese and was currently discussing a new anti-war protest that was going to be happening later that month, in San Francisco. Bennett had thought it was ridiculous, that they needed to concentrate on their studies, not worry about protesting something they didn't even fully understand.  
   
But then Caroline had turned her large, doe eyes on Whiskey, and all her ready agreements with Bennett had vanished from the tip of her tongue. "Of course I'll come with you," she'd said, and Caroline had thrown her arms around Whiskey's neck and kissed her right there. It was the first time they'd kissed in front of anyone else; in that moment, Whiskey felt invincible.  
   
"Hey," November said, cutting through Whiskey's thoughts, resting a hand on her arm. She looked concerned. "You okay?"  
   
"Fine," Whiskey said, as they rolled past DeWitt's, the lights dimmed low in the main bar area. "Just tired. We need to figure out what our next step is going to be."  
   
"We stay here and help defend Glen River, like always."  
   
Whiskey shook her head. "Not anymore. Things have changed now."  
   
"No, they haven't." November's tone was firm. "Nothing's changed at all. This Alpha and Omega stuff, it _doesn't_ concern us, Whiskey. We don't need to interfere. If we do . . . Well, who knows what will happen? Bennett said that everyone, even government branches, are being kept in the dark about this whole project -- don't you think that's a little cause for alarm?"  
   
"Exactly my point," Whiskey said, as they turned in front of the building where they were staying. She put the Impala in park and kicked her door open, climbing out. November followed close behind as Whiskey unlocked the front door.  
   
"Look," November said, when they were upstairs, kicking off her boots. "All I'm saying is, we don't know anything about the LA situation. For all we know, Jack's information was old. Their little crusade could be over by now. It's just not worth worrying about.  
   
Her cigarettes were on the kitchen table; Whiskey snatched them up, fumbling in her pockets for a lighter. "But what if it is?"  
   
From the bed, November sighed, which Whiskey knew meant that November thought she was being ridiculous. But November just didn't understand. If it had been anyone else mixed up in this business, Whiskey wouldn't have even given it a second thought. But the fact that Caroline was part of this -- it just couldn't be right. The idea rubbed her all wrong; Caroline wasn't like that. Caroline was sweet. She cared about things. She wouldn't just slay a bunch of purebreds, wolf of not. Something was wrong.  
   
And November just -- well, November didn't get it. Whiskey understood that things had been bad for her, she knew that November had never really recovered from her parents deaths, that when it came to wolves, she'd shoot first and ask questions later. And for the most part, Whiskey agreed with those sentiments; it wasn't exactly as if she'd had good experiences with wolves either. But she also knew that not all wolves could be bad -- not unless they wanted to be. Bennett, as much as an annoyance as she was, was proof of that. And Whiskey was certain that Caroline would fall into that same category as well. November would come to understand this, in time. Whiskey had no doubt of it.  
   
Off to the side, November was undressing for the night, tugging off her t-shirt, her hair down and falling around her shoulders, framing her pale face. In an instant, Whiskey had snubbed out her cigarette and was beside November on the bed, helping her to undo the belt on her jeans.  
   
"I just don't want you to worry," November sighed, eyes fluttering closed as Whiskey kissed a path down her neck. "That's all."  
   
Whiskey pressed her lips to the hollow space of November's throat. "I thought you wanted something different? Thought you were tired of Glen River and wanted a chance to get out there and do something real."  
   
"Mm." November's hands tangled in Whiskey's hair. "I did. I do. But I don't want you to send us on a death mission, Claire."  
   
November never called Whiskey by her real name. It was unnerving. Whiskey pulled back a bit, finding one of November's hands and bringing it to her mouth, kissing her palm. November moaned softly, shifting impatiently under Whiskey, her hips bucking up just slightly. Whiskey responded by working her hand down the front of November's jeans, the zipper there scraping against her knuckles; November jerked up hard against her fingertips.  
   
"Alright," November murmured in Whiskey's ear, before cupping Whiskey's face in her hands and kissing her roughly. "Alright. Of course I'll go with you. You know I will. If it will make you happy."  
   
"It's not about me," Whiskey protested, but even in her mouth it tasted like a lie. "I just -- "  
   
She was promptly cut off by November kissing her again.  
   
"I said yes," November told her, breathless. "And that's it."


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, they left Glen River.   
  
Whiskey stopped in to DeWitt's to say goodbye to Ivy and leave a note for Adelle, which simply had the words  _Los Angeles_  written on it. Whiskey knew Adelle would get the message, and she had connections too; she'd be able to find Whiskey if the need ever arose. Not like Adelle needed help that often, but Whiskey felt it was only fair to offer her services in case of an emergency, considering Adelle had supplied her with ammunition for free the whole time she'd lived in Glen River.   
  
They packed the car with the belongings they had: weapons, ammunition, and the few sets of clothes that they still had. They also stuffed the truck full of as much water and non-perishable food as they could bring; Whiskey knew from experience that it could often be very difficult to find a fully stocked town inhabited by purebreds, and she had no desire to starve herself for a trip that might not even prove to be worth it. November also insisted in bringing along alcohol, reasoning that at the very least they could just it to barter with, if need be.   
  
Whiskey reckoned that the trip would take a couple of months, figuring in the need to stop and rest every evening and the fact that they'd have to take a roundabout route to get to Los Angeles thanks to the interstates being heavily patrolled by cops and government agents. She had only a vague sense of how to get where they were going, but she figured as long as she kept the Impala pointed West, they'd be okay.    
  
For the most part, Whiskey drove, but every so often November would force Whiskey to relinquish her spot behind the wheel.   
  
"You've gotten only six hours of sleep in about two days, you need a break," she said, with a pointed look at Whiskey, who sighed and pulled off the road, putting the car in park so that they'd be able to switch seats.   
  
"Just don't fucking wreck it," Whiskey grumbled, crossing her arms and glaring at November. "That's the last thing we need."   
  
Whiskey had been expecting them to run into trouble, especially when they were cutting across New York -- she'd heard things from Ivy about there being a lot of purebred and wolf fights in the past month -- but for the most part it was smooth sailing. Near the New York and Pennsylvania border, where November and Whiskey had stopped to set up camp for the night, they ended up catching a pair of wolves sniffing around the Impala, but Whiskey'd shot them both dead in an instant. They'd dumped the bodies in the basement of the abandoned shop where they were staying; by the time the bodies would be discovered, they'd be long gone.   
  
The small incident had been beneficial, though, as one of the wolves had been carrying a sizable amount of money on his person, and it allowed Whiskey to breathe a little easier. On the off chance that they'd run into an official, they'd stand a good chance of getting off with a bribe. Money wasn't very useful to purebreds -- not any longer -- but it was to the wolves, and most cops were starved enough financially that they'd take whatever they could get.   
  
It meant that they stood less of a chance of getting killed, which was obviously the most important thing.   
  
Whenever they stopped somewhere for the night, they had a routine. November would stand watch by the car as Whiskey canvassed the area, checking for pure humans and wolves alike. If the coast was clear, they'd bring in into the abandoned shop or warehouse -- or whatever was just available, a few times they camped out in old gas stations, when Whiskey needed to fill the Impala and needed time to siphon the gasoline -- whatever was nessecary for the situation, which usually included water, a bit of food, bedding, and the few weapons they had. After that, they'd do another surveillance sweep and then, depending on their moods and how tired or not they were, argue over who would have to get the first shift of guard duty.   
  
That argument would usually lead to a fight, a scuffle, which would then inevitably turn into Whiskey and November fucking roughly, quickly on the floor or against the wall or wherever they ended up. They never went slow, not anymore, as if there was an unspoken agreement between them that  _now_  wasn't a good time. It was different, when they were stable, when they didn't have to worry about the potential danger of tomorrow. Whiskey didn't mind and, for all she knew, November didn't mind either. It was just how they worked, their almost angry game of push and pull.   
  
Iowa was where they ran into trouble.   
  
Out of all the places where there could be a high population of wolves, Whiskey had never figured on it being Iowa; New Des Moines was the only major city around the area. When they'd stopped at an old gas station to fill up the Impala, November had done a bit of exploring to stretch her legs -- and had ended up stumbling upon a pile of decomposing bodies behind the main building.   
  
"You'd better come see this," she'd shouted, waving Whiskey over.    
  
Whiskey, curious, removed the gas nozzle from the Impala and went to see what was so important. When she'd gotten around to the back, the smell hit her, sickening and overpowering. The first thing she noticed after that was all of the bodies had their throats ripped open.    
  
"Wolves," she said grimly, nudging the arm of one of bodies with the toe of her boot. She took a step back, surveying the rest of the area. They were surrounded by woods -- and alone, as far as she could tell. The bodies didn't bode well, though. She could tell that these were fairly recent kills, probably in the past week or so. That meant the area probably still had wolves lurking about. She said as much, reaching for her cigarettes.   
  
November grimaced, chancing another look at the bodies. "But we're miles and miles away from even the suburbs of New Des Moines," she said, hands shoved into her jacket pockets. "Why would they be here?"   
  
Whiskey shrugged, holding her cigarette between her teeth and trying to get her lighter to work.   
  
"Well, what do you think we should do?"   
  
"I'm not sure." Whiskey exhaled a stream of blue-gray smoke. "This was supposed to be our stop for the day. Do you want to keep going, see if there's anything up ahead? Or do you want to take a chance on here for tonight?"   
  
November frowned, thinking. "We could do a sweep," she suggested, after a minute. "See if there's anything to be seen. If it looks like they've cleared out by now, I don't see why we can't coop up here for one night. Just so long as we find a safe place to stay. And if we do see any wolves -- "   
  
"We'll kill 'em," Whiskey nodded, finishing her sentence. "There could be a lot of them though. And for all we know, this could be a trap. Maybe something set up to catch any passerby who may be coming through."   
  
"Well," November gave a slight shrug, looking at her. "That's just a risk we're going to take, isn't it?"   
  
Whiskey took a final drag of her cigarette and flicked it away. It bounced once before rolling to a stop in the dirt a few inches from the nearest body. "Let's go, then."   
  
  
;;   
  
  
While it would have been easier to do an area sweep on foot, Whiskey instead opted for them to both ride in the Impala to do it. It was less risky this way; seeing as there were only two of them, if they separated, they'd be huge targets for wolves. Even together they weren't very much -- a handful of wolves was about the most they could handle at once. Anymore than five and it'd be a difficult undertaking that they probably wouldn't survive.   
  
By the time they'd they finally crawled down Main Street they hadn't noticed any activity at all. Whiskey internally sighed with relief; if there were a lot of wolves lurking around, they would have been around here. That meant that whatever wolves were still left -- if there were any at all -- they obviously were keeping a low profile. That also probably meant that any attacks on them would come during the night, but she could deal with that. By that time they would have found shelter and would be better prepared.   
  
Unless it was all a trap, of course; Whiskey didn't have a plan for that.    
  
"Well that turned out better than expected," November said, sounding surprised. "To be honest, I thought we were going to run into trouble."   
  
"Yeah," Whiskey murmured, keeping her eyes fixed to the road. "Me too."   
  
"Lucky us, then." November reached around to the backseat and grabbed a bottle of Michelob. She uncapped it and took a swig and then held the bottle out towards Whiskey. "You want some?"   
  
"You know I hate warm beer. Tastes like piss."   
  
November held up her hands as is to say  _suit yourself_  and turned her gaze back out her window, taking a sip of beer every so often. Whiskey's mouth was dry from the heat and the dust on the road, but she wasn't about to stop the car to go around and fetch a canteen of water from the back. Right now all she was concerned about was finding them a place to stay the evening, which was proving difficult; most of the buildings were either dilapidated or boarded up -- and she wasn't in the mood for having to kick down a door.   
  
"Maybe we  _should_  go somewhere else," she said, thinking out loud. "It doesn't look like there's any place for us to stay."   
  
November chucked her now empty bottle out the window. "There's got to be a house for us stay in," she said, slouching back in her seat with a sigh. "Here, let's just go up the road a way's more. Maybe there's something off the main drag."   
  
Luckily enough they  _did_  find a place, though it took a bit more searching than just turning down a side street. The house was way off on the other side of town, standing right alongside the woods all by its lonesome. It looked, to Whiskey, like it had been made in the 1800's, with its Victorian era tower and conical roof. There was a flat roof on top of the porch that wrapped itself around the front and left side of the house; it would be a good place to sit for guard duty during the night. It also looked like someone had kept the house in very good shape. Whiskey wouldn't have been surprised if it'd been occupied by purebreds recently (though as to why they had abandoned it, she could only guess).   
  
"This is nice," November remarked, climbing out of the car and striding over to the house. "Do you want me to canvas the area? I don't mind doing it. You can unpack our stuff in the meanwhile."   
  
Whiskey nodded and November trotted off, gun in hand. The sun was just beginning to set as Whiskey pulled what they needed from the trunk and backseat of the car and brought them into the house. By that time, November was back, to report that as far as she'd seen there hadn't been anyone around, whether inside or outside the house.   
  
Whiskey sighed and un-clipped her flask from her belt, finishing off what bourbon was still left in the container. "At least maybe we'll finally get some sleep tonight."   
  
November smirked. "I wouldn't count on it."   
  
"We don't have time," Whiskey said, leveling her with an annoyed look. "If that's what you're implying. Besides, someone has to sit outside and keep watch."   
  
"Later," November murmured, stepping forward and pressing Whiskey against the sink. She brought their lips together in one swift motion, hands gripping Whiskey's arms. Whiskey kissed her back for a moment before pulling away and shoving November back roughly.   
  
"I said, we don't fucking have time."   
  
November moved forward, giving Whiskey a shove back. "What is your fucking problem, Whiskey?" her eyes were bright, eager. Ready for a fight. "This is so typical of you; you're in a good mood until I say or do something you don't agree with, and you go right back to being a bitch. You have a fucking five second rebound rate, and I'm tired of it."   
  
Whiskey glared at her. She stepped forward and jabbed a finger into November's chest, angry now. "So fuck off,  _Madeline_ , if you don't like it." She pointed down the hallway. "There's the fucking door."   
  
She almost didn't see November's fist as it cut through the air, but at the last second she caught sight of it and managed to jump back just enough to not feel the full force of the blow. She clenched her right hand into a tight fist and struck back; her blow was more accurate, catching November on the side of her face, near her mouth. It was enough to open back up the split lip November had gotten from one of their fights three nights prior.   
  
A thin stream of bright red blood trickled down November's lips and chin; Whiskey watched a tiny droplet fall to the floor with grim satisfaction.   
  
A second later November lunged at her with a cry, tackling them both to the ground. Whiskey knocked her arm against the edge of the corner during the fall and promptly reared back to punch November in the face a second time, in retaliation for the dull ache already forming in her elbow. November pushed up with her knee, hitting Whiskey square in the stomach and knocking the wind out of her for a second.   
  
Whiskey coughed, pulling back a bit, which allowed November to gain the upper hand; throwing Whiskey off her, she ended up straddling Whiskey's stomach, pinning her to the ground.    
  
"What the  _fuck_ ," she said, taking the opportunity to take a decent swing at Whiskey. Whiskey heard the sharp crack of her nose being broken and winced internally at the thought of having to snap it back into place. She fucking  _hated_  broken bones, of any sort.   
  
She was just about to strike back when there was a crash on the front porch; Whiskey had rigged up a makeshift alarm in the case of intruders -- and obviously, someone or something had set it up. She pushed November off her and scrambled to her feet, drawing her gun and reaching for her knife. November was a second behind her, grabbing her gun from the counter where it had been resting.    
  
"What was  _that_ ?" she whispered to Whiskey, who narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip on her Colt.    
  
"Don't know."   
  
They stood there ready in the kitchen, waiting. But all was quiet from outside; the attack never came. There were no footsteps in the hall, no sounds. No nothing. Whiskey wondered, for a second, if the alarm had been set off by just an animal. Out of the corner of her eye, Whiskey saw November's posture relax, arms dropping to her sides. Maybe it was just a false alarm after all.   
  
But there there  _was_  a sound. A low, throaty growl that came from outside, echoing throughout the house.   
  
_Fuck_ . Obviously they weren't alone after all. And the wolf -- or  _wolves_  Whiskey thought, steeling herself -- weren't going to come inside. They were going to make her and November come out. She knew this whole town had been a fucking trap. The wolves had probably just been lying low in wait. Figures.   
  
She nodded her head once at November, then towards the back door. Fighting inside the house would be a mistake; if they got out into the open, they could stand a better chance at taking whatever wolves were outside. But first they had to make it out there.   
  
Whiskey kept her gun trained down the front hall and her eyes fixed on November. She mouthed the words --  _One. Two. Three_  -- and in a dash November took off towards the back door. Whiskey was right behind her, checking over her shoulder to make sure whatever was on the porch wasn't following her. A second later they were both outside, standing in the backyard, the grass coming up to their calves, looking at nothing; the yard was empty.   
  
There was no way the wolves hadn't heard them moving inside the house. So where were they?   
  
She didn't have to wonder long; a moment later, four wolves came loping around from the front, two on either side of the house. Their coats were striking different; one was white, another was black. The other two were varying shaded of brown, one tannish and the other more auburn in color. All of them had bright gold-colored eyes, their mouths open, tongues lolling to the side. They looked bigger than the ones that Whiskey had encountered in New England, but otherwise no different.   
  
Whiskey took a step backwards, coming back-to-back with November. She tensed, ready. The wolves seemed to be eyeing them, taking their time to size them up. Making them nervous. In her head, Whiskey tried to play out how the fight would go down; how she'd move, what she'd do. The one with black fur seemed to be the leader; she had to take it out first. Then go for the others.   
  
"What -- " November started, right before the auburn wolf lunged at Whiskey.   
  
She shot at it, catching it in the shoulder. It was a bad shot; it was going to take more than that to take down a wolf. Through the heart and nothing else. The wolf landed with a yelp of pain a few feet away; it was back on it's feet a second later, blood and silver seeping from the fresh wound. There was a growl to her left; Whiskey turned to see November raise her gun and shoot the white, smaller wolf; she just missed, jumping out of the way to avoid an attack.   
  
Whiskey lunged forward, catching the white wolf off guard, slashing at it's throat with her knife. The wolf, surprised, staggered back; Whiskey shot it dead. November fired her own gun a second time, and the tan wolf fell to the ground, lifeless. The only ones that were left with the auburn and black wolves, the biggest ones of the group. So the fight hadn't gone exactly to plan; at least it was a fairer fight now.   
  
The auburn wolf was limping, it's shoulder injury slowly taking its toll. November could kill that one; the black one was going to present a bigger challenge. The two wolves circled them, fur back, teeth bared. Waiting. They weren't going to make the first move this time, Whiskey knew. The wolves were trying to force their hands. Well, she thought, if that was how it was going to be --   
  
Whiskey shot at the black wolf, missing by a hair. It lunged at her; for the split second they were in mid-air, Whiskey plunged her knife into the wolf's side, yanking it roughly up, leaving a huge gash in it's side. They landed on the ground, struggling together; the wolves heavy paws pinned Whiskey's shoulders to the ground. It's jaws snapped forward, trying to bite her neck.   
  
Her Colt. The hand that was grasping her gun was pinned between her in the wolf. If she had only a few inches to spare --   
  
She raised her left hand, slashing at the wolf again, this time near its neck. Blood splashed onto her face, warm and wet. The wolf started, flinching for just a second -- which was long enough for Whiskey to wrestle her arm free; she pulled the trigger, her gun pressed right to the wolf's chest, in front of its heart.    
  
It collapsed on top of her; Whiskey grunted, kicking it off and scrambling to her feet. The auburn wolf was still fighting November, dodging back and forth, trying to bite her while still keeping out of the way of her gun. Whiskey aimed and shot again, her bullet grazing the side of the wolf's face. It collapsed to the ground. November, striding over quickly, emptying the rest of her round into the wolf, effectively killing it.   
  
"Well, that went well," November sighed, shoving her gun into her jacket pocket and resting her hands on her hips. "You okay?"   
  
"Fine," Whiskey told her, wiping some of the blood off her face as she surveyed the area; the four wolves had reverted back to their original states. Three males and a young-ish looking female. Their blood and silver pooled out around their bodies on the ground. Usually Whiskey would dispose of the bodies, but she didn't see a need to here. Besides, it would serve as a warning to any purebreds that happened to come through.    
  
November sighed again, brushing the hair out of her eyes, leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek. "Let's go inside. I need a drink."   
  
Whiskey agreed.   
  
  
;;   
  
  
A few hours later, when night had properly settled over the town, Whiskey and November were passing a bottle of Jack Daniels back and forth, sipping on it while they smoked, still recovering from the fight. Whiskey hadn't changed out of her blood splattered clothes; she didn't have enough sets of clothes to change whenever one pair got a bit dirty. November had switched into a black tank top and had washed her hair in the kitchen sink. It hung, damp, down her shoulders.    
  
Whiskey had cleaned off her face, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail. She'd reloaded her Colt and put her knife back in its proper place, after wiping it clean on her pants.    
  
"Fuck," Whiskey sighed, leaning back in her chair, taking a swig of bourbon. "Today turned out to be much more exciting than I'd anticipated."   
  
"Exciting?" November raised an eyebrow, blowing out smoke rings. "Do you call almost dying 'exciting'?"   
  
Whiskey snorted. "We've been in much worse situations than that. We were just caught off guard. It won't happen again."   
  
November finished off her cigarette, dropping it to the floor and grinding it out with her boot. "Well, I sure hope fucking not. If you die, what am I gonna do, huh? You know I can't fight the wolves all by myself. I fucking need you, Claire."   
  
Whiskey rolled her eyes, reaching forward and grabbing November by the shirt, tugging her in for a quick kiss. "Don't be a pussy," she said, resting her forehead against November's for a second before kissing her again.    
  
November laughed, moving in for a final kiss before sitting back with a grin, taking the bottle of JD from Whiskey and taking a swig of it. It was nice, considering they'd been fighting only hours before. It wasn't as if Whiskey enjoyed fighting with November, but she wished November would just do as she was told. November was still young and unruly at times; she had to be put in her place.   
  
She made to snatch the bourbon back from November, when all of a sudden there was another noise on the front porch.   
  
"Goddammit," November murmured, one hand gripping the bottle of alcohol. " _Again_ ?"   
  
They barely had time to get to their feet, guns at the ready, before a man stepped into the kitchen, a woman close behind him. Their clothes were dirty and flecked with blood and they looked unarmed. Still, who knew who they were or where they'd come from. Anyone could dangerous.    
  
The man and woman froze in the doorway when they spotted Whiskey and November.    
  
"Stay back," Whiskey said in a low voice, brandishing her gun threateningly. "And don't even  _think_  about moving."   
  
"Hey now," the man said, holding his hands up, palms facing outwards. Helpless. "Don't shoot. We're unarmed. Sorry, we didn't think that anyone would be in here. We've been traveling for a long time and we need rest. Okay? No harm intended." He kept his hands up as the girl he was with moved closer to him, standing just behind his shoulder, gripping his arm.    
  
In the light, Whiskey could see her clearer. She had dirty blonde hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in days. Weeks, even. It was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She had light olive-colored skin and sharp, dark eyes. Her clothes were dirty and speckled with blood. It wasn't difficult to spot the bite mark on her shoulder; an ugly, red-purple color, it was clearly just in the beginning stages of healing.   
  
"Tony," the girl said quietly, her gaze never wavering from Whiskey. "Let's just go."   
  
"She's been bitten," November said, gesturing to the wound with her gun. "How long ago was that? Are you a wolf too?" she looked over at the man; Whiskey couldn't read the expression on her face. A mixture of anger, pity, disgust. Confusion. "Do you know what she'll become? An animal. A killer." She spat out the last word, her face twisting into something ugly.    
  
Whiskey wanted nothing to do with this situation.   
  
Instead, she said, "Leave it, November." Then, to the man, "It's not wise to be traveling with someone who's been freshly bitten. Once the disease has taken hold, there's no going back. The first transformation is the most unpredictable; she could kill you without a second's hesitation."   
  
"I won't!" The girl cried, eyes shining. Whiskey noticed a small cut above her left eye. Blood was dripping down onto her cheek, bright red. She remembered the first wolf she had ever shot, how his eyes had glowed amber in the pale moonlight. How later, she couldn't even recall doing the actual shooting, as if some strange, foreign part of her had acted without her knowing. This man didn't know what he was getting himself into; November was at least right about that.   
  
"You won't have a choice," Whiskey said, putting away her gun in a show of faith. The man's hands fell to his sides, his face relaxing some. "November's right. When the transformation happens, you won't be yourself. It won't matter what  _you_  want to do, only what the  _wolf_  wants to do."   
  
"So what do you suggest we do?" The man's tone was desperate, pleading. "That I just abandon her now? Or kill her on the spot? Because I -- I can't." He looked on the verge of tears. Whiskey felt a swell of sympathy at that, for some strange reason that she didn't quite understand. Maybe it was just a moment of weakness.   
  
"Please," the girl said, wrapping her arms around the man's waist. "Please."   
  
Whiskey sighed. She reached for her cigarettes and lighter. Of course nothing could ever be easy. Of fucking  _course_ . As she lit up, she felt everyone's eyes on her, waiting for -- for what? For her to say something, maybe. For her to make a decision. Whiskey wanted to tell them all to just fuck off; this wasn't her decision to make. She didn't give a fuck whether the girl lived or died -- she was a wolf no matter what, as far as Whiskey was concerned, and nothing would ever change that -- but she couldn't deny that she felt sorry for the man. The girl was probably his only companion in the world.   
  
Forget the virus, she thought, as the smoke burned in her lungs. The real curse is stuck loving the one thing that could kill you.   
  
"What's your name?" she finally asked, talking around her cigarette.   
  
"Anthony," the man said. "Tony," he amended, after a second. He gestured towards the girl beside him. "This is Priya."   
  
Whiskey glanced over at November. "You go by your real names?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"That's dangerous," November said, relaying what Whiskey had once told her. "Very risky indeed. It's easier to track people when they use their real names. That's why we go by nicknames," she explained, looking back and forth between Whiskey and herself.   
  
Priya loosened her grip on Tony's arm, taking a small step forward. "What do you call yourselves?"   
  
"Whiskey," Whiskey said.   
  
November nodded, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. "I'm November."   
  
The man frowned. "Oh."   
  
"Well, look," Whiskey started, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between the group. "It's late. If you two want to stay here for the night, I suppose that wouldn't do any harm," she said, nodding in Tony and Priya's direction before settling down onto a shipping crate with a heavy sigh. "November is going to take the first shift tonight on guard duty, as we'd already worked that out, but if one of you two wanted to volunteer for the next shift . . . " she trailed off, looking pointedly at Tony.   
  
"Right." Tony cleared his throat. "In that case, I'd best get some sleep. Thank you for letting us stay here overnight."   
  
Whiskey shrugged.   
  
November bent down, pushing Whiskey's hair back from her forehead and kissing her temple. "Are you sure we can trust them?" she whispered in Whiskey's ear, crouching down beside her. They both looked over at Tony and Priya, who were now huddling together off to the side beneath a large, ragged blanket.    
  
I'm not sure about  _anything_ , Whiskey wanted to say. Everything was so goddamn fucked up right now and the last thing she wanted was to invite a fucking  _wolf_  to spend the night with them, but what could she do? It was all one big fucking mess and a small part of her thought that maybe this  _had_  been a mistake, deciding to investigate what was going on in LA. Maybe she should have just let them stay in Glen River.   
  
But she couldn't say that. Not to November.   
  
Instead she yanked November down by her shirt collar for a proper kiss; she tasted blood in her mouth from biting down too hard on November's bottom lip. "Just do your fucking job," she murmured, annoyed. She shoved November in the direction of the front door.    
  
"Bitch," she heard November mutter as she walked off, but it sounded like she was smiling.    
  
If only things were that simple.   
  
  
;;   
  
  
"So?" Whiskey said, climbing onto the roof and settling down beside November, who was picking at a tear in her jeans. Whiskey uncapped her bottle of Michelob and took a long swig before passing it off. "Are you okay?"   
  
"It's not time for your shift," November said, holding the bottle with both hands and staring down the neck of it, swishing the contents about. "You don't have watch tonight; I thought you asked that guy -- Victor -- to take over for me."   
  
Whiskey shrugged. Her holster was poking into her stomach; she undid it from her belt, setting it and her Colt aside. "I told him not to bother. You know what they say, anyway. I want it done right, so I may as well do it myself. But I'm not all that concerned. This area looks pretty sparse in terms of population -- wolves and purebreds alike."   
  
November made a small sound of agreement and took a swig of beer.   
  
Whiskey sighed, resting back on her hands. There was the mildly irritating sensation of the rough texture of the roof digging into her palms, but she ignored it. Her nose was still a bit tender from when she had to snap it back into place earlier that evening and she could still feel the dull ache from fixing it. She hadn't remembered how fucking painful it was to have a broken nose. At least it was a nicer night out tonight than it'd been usually; warm, but not hot, with a cool wind blowing down from up north, which provided a welcome relief. Whiskey had forgotten how hot the Midwest could be, even in autumn. It'd been a long time.   
  
"You're not worried about the wolves out there, are you though?" she asked, after a time. "Just the wolves inside."   
  
November kept her eyes glued on the horizon. "That's not it."   
  
"That is it. You don't like her, I know. You didn't like Bennett, either, and not because of her personality."   
  
"I don't know what you mean." November took another swallow, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. Whiskey thought about pressing a kiss to the corner of November's mouth, but then immediately decided against it. That sort of thing could wait; November would only use it as a distraction to not talk about whatever issue she had.   
  
Instead, Whiskey took out her gun and began to take it apart. She liked to be doing something when she talked, always. It felt strange to her to be having a conversation without something to do; her hands would turn into foreign things otherwise. She wouldn't know what to do with them. And besides, she hated having to keep eye contact.   
  
At last, when she was polishing the gun's handle on the edge of her shirt, she said, "It's okay, you know, if you don't like wolves. I get that. I hate them just as much as you do. But you have to realize, they're not all bad. Like that girl downstairs; you know she didn't ask for that to happen."   
  
"But they always turn on you in the end," November said quietly, finishing the beer setting the bottle to the side. "That's how it always works out."   
  
Whiskey sighed and began polishing a different part.    
  
"You just don't know," November went on, sounding sad and angry all at once. "You  _don't_ , Claire. There was this girl I used to know, right? She was really sweet. We'd been best friends since we were little kids and I sort of loved her, in that awkward, I have a crush on my best friend sort of way. I never told her about it, but she wouldn't have cared; she was like that. Like I said, she was sweet. And when the virus first came out, she told me that no matter what happened, we'd be together."   
  
Whiskey heard November sniff, but she didn't look up. She set aside the newly polished piece and started work on another.   
  
"But when she got bit, I was there. I'd grabbed the wolf off her, knocked him about real good, but of course by then it was too late. And the transformation, it wasn't slow like for most people. The virus just took hold and she was gone in minutes. And in her place was just this -- this fucking  _thing_ . It tried to attack me, and," out of the corner of her eye, Whiskey saw November wipe away a stray tear. "I had to kill her, okay? I mean, it was me or her and when I looked into her eyes, I knew it wasn't really  _her_  any longer. She was just a monster."   
  
"She couldn't help it," Whiskey told her softly, after a minute. "It wasn't her fault."   
  
"It  _was_ . Julia had  _promised_  that nothing like that would ever happen. And then it did and I just fucking  _killed_  her. Like  _I_  had become an animal too. You know I didn't even feel sorry afterward? I thought, well, at least I'm alive. As if her being dead was somehow a good thing."   
  
Whiskey began to put her Colt back together, as November trailed off, swiping again at her eyes. They sat like that in silence for quite some time, until the wind picked up and Whiskey grew cold and tired of sitting in the same place. She pushed herself up, buckling her holster back on and sliding her gun into place. She stretched; her muscles were still aching from the wolf fight earlier.   
  
"She shouldn't have promised you that," Whiskey said, crouching down beside November and kissing her cheek. "But she couldn't have known what was going to happen. And neither could you. I know that you feel guilty and angry about what happened, but it wasn't your fault any more than it was hers."   
  
November shifted, facing Whiskey and moving in for a proper kiss. "I just can't help it," she muttered, resting their foreheads together. "Sometimes I don't know what I hate more; that they become wolves or the fact that we have to be the ones to kill them."   
  
Whiskey kissed her again. "It's just life," she said, sitting back down beside November, cupping November's face in her hands. "If it wasn't this, it'd be something else. It's never easy."   
  
"Well," November managed a weak smile, one hand going up to cover Whiskey's own. "You make it a bit easier."   
  
"Oh, don't get all fucking romantic on me," Whiskey said, giving her a shove back, but  she couldn't deny that it made her feel at least a  _little_  good. November was impulsive and needy and utterly helpless and aggravating at times, but at other times, like this, she could be soft and sweet. Insightful. And likable.    
  
And, for a moment Whiskey thought, as November laughed and moved in closer, grabbing Whiskey's shirt and pulling her in for a hungry kiss, almost even, lovable.   
  
  
;;   
  
  
In the end, they decided to bring Tony and Priya along with them to LA.   
  
There was more than enough room in the Impala for them and, though Whiskey would never admit it out loud, she felt a little bad for them. They'd been hunters just like herself and November and had just run into some bad luck. It wouldn't be right to leave Tony to deal with Priya and the virus all alone. And besides, she reasoned, it made sense to bring a few more people along. For starters, it would allow them extra manpower, which, if the accounts of the massacres in Los Angeles were true, they desperately needed. And secondly, Whiskey and November had already begun to tire of the constant surveillance and driving before they'd even met Priya and Tony; with more people, they could keep themselves better rested and thus, more useful.   
  
November hadn't liked the idea at all, of course, when Whiskey had announced her plans, and she'd sat around for two days in a sulk, until Whiskey'd pulled her aside one evening when they were alone and fucked her roughly against their bedroom wall. November'd bitten down so hard on Whiskey's shoulder that she'd drawn blood and the memory of the first night they'd met was enough to make Whiskey come, hard, with a small stream of blood trickling slowly down her arm.   
  
The second thing Whiskey had done was give Priya and Tony new names.   
  
"Names are important," she'd told them, while they were all sitting around eating breakfast that Priya'd put together for them. "And in this case, names are important. Aliases are more useful, because the wolves are less likely to pick up on something like that. A name's easy to recognize and that could be the thing that gets you caught."   
  
"I didn't even know Whiskey's real name until almost a year after we'd met," November said, still a bit sullen, but getting used to the idea that Tony and Priya were here to say. "It really does make a difference, not knowing someone's real name. It gives them the upper hand."   
  
Whiskey smiled. "And since I gave November her name, I'm going to name you both as well. Don't worry," she'd said, glancing over at Priya, who looked uneasy. "You get used to it. Hell, Whiskey feels more of my name now than -- than my real name. It grows on you. And these will definitely suit you."   
  
She'd named Tony "Victor," since he spoke Russian and gave Priya the name "Sierra," because she came from Nevada. Her theory behind names was simple: basing it off the NATO phonetic alphabet, she looked for names that represented a part of the person who was being renamed. The way she figured, if the names had origins that were important to that person, they'd be less likely to forget it.   
  
Whiskey'd named herself after the Whiskey Rebellion of 1790, in part because she thought it sounded nice and also because she thought it fit, given the circumstances; one of the last purebreds, rebelling against the wolf empire. November had acquired her name simply by luck; it was the month in which she and Whiskey first met.   
  
Sierra and Victor rode in the back of the Impala, while Whiskey drove and November sat shotgun.    
  
Driving from Iowa to LA was going to be quite a task, Whiskey knew. For right now, they could travel with little fear of getting caught, but that was because the Midwest had all about emptied itself out during the virus outbreak, and few had returned. But Whiskey knew that the closer they got to the West Coast, the trickier things would get. There were multitude of cities to avoid, which meant they'd have to take the very long way around, cutting through the Dakotas and then Montana. It was going to take them weeks, to reach California, if they were lucky.   
  
It didn't help that November still hadn't taken to Victor or Sierra. Sierra, mostly, and not a single day passed without some sort of comment from November about them bringing along a wolf. Sierra would keep quiet about it; it was Victor who argued back and more than once Whiskey thought about just hitting them all over the head and kicking them out of the Impala. Leave them alone on the side of the road, she thought, gripping the steering wheel and glaring warningly at November who slouched down in her seat, arms crossed, sulking. It would teach them a lesson.   
  
Things came to a head when they stopped in the small town of Lemmon, South Dakota. Whiskey needed to fill up the Impala and had been anxiously looking for a place to stop. Gas stations were few and far between -- even more so if they were still functional, which was an absolute rarity these days. Whiskey hated having to siphon the gasoline manually; it wasted too much time.   
  
She and Victor had been busy trying to see if the pumps were still working when all of a sudden she heard November and Sierra arguing. Loudly. Looking up, she saw Sierra clutching one of the water canteens with one hand and her nose with the other. Blood dripped through her fingers. Perfect.   
  
"What the  _fuck_  is going on?" Whiskey demanded sharply, striding over, Victor not far behind.   
  
November took a tiny step back. "She was wasting water," she said accusingly, jabbing a finger in Sierra's direction.    
  
Sierra glared at her over her hand. "I was  _washing_  my wound," she said, glancing down at the bite mark on her shoulder, which had turned a disgusting purple-green. "And it wasn't a problem until you came over here and slugged me in the face for no reason." She narrowed her eyes, wiping her bloody hand on her shirt. "Bitch."   
  
November sprang forward with a growl, but Whiskey caught her by her jacket. "That's enough, November," she said, tossing November to the side, where she stumbled and landed in the dirt. "Haven't you caused enough trouble already?"   
  
"Well, it's her fault!" November protested childishly, standing up and brushing herself off. "That's  _our_  water that we're trying to save up, Whisk. Instead of doing whatever they want to, they should just shut the fuck up and be happy that we even decided to take their ungrateful asses along."   
  
Whiskey grabbed November by the front of her shirt, yanking her in so that they could look eye-to-eye. " _You_  don't call the shots around here, Madeline Costley," she said, in a low, dangerous voice. "I do. And I want them," she jerked her head in Victor and Sierra's direction, "to come with us. If you don't like it, then that's too fucking bad."   
  
November's face twisted into something mean, ugly. "I should have known you'd take  _their_  side,  _Claire_ . After all, you're the  _expert_  on loving wolves."   
  
Whiskey kneed her, hard, in the stomach. November folded up into herself and Whiskey dropped her to the ground. She fell to her knees beside November, pushing her onto her back and moving forward to straddle her waist. She pulled a struggling November up by the shirt again and struck her with her fist, twice. "Don't you  _ever_  talk to me like that," Whiskey told her, fuming.    
  
November glared up at her, her left eye already swelling shut. "Fuck. You."   
  
Whiskey hit her once more, for good measure. November fell back, beat; Whiskey wiped her bloody hand off on November's tan shirt, standing up. She looked over at Victor and Sierra -- Victor had his arm wrapped around Sierra's shoulders, her arm around his waist. Both of them were staring at her with obviously shocked looks on their faces. Clearly they hadn't been prepared for the way Whiskey and November acted around each other.   
  
"It's fine," Whiskey told them, her hand still a bit sticky with blood. She wiped at it absently, dirtying her shirt. "She'll get over it," she said, nodding down toward November, who had pushed herself up into a sitting position. Whiskey nudged her with her boot, gently. "Isn't that right, November?"   
  
November scowled up at her, gingerly touching her nose to check if it was broken. "Fuck off, Whiskey," she muttered, She managed to get herself to her feet, albeit with a slight sway, and then, shoving her hands into her jacket powers, began to stalk off.   
  
"Hey," Whiskey called after her, as the wind kicked up, blowing sand all around them. "Where are you going?"   
  
"I'm taking your advice," November yelled back, not turning, but sticking her arm up in the air and flipping Whiskey off. "And getting the hell out of here."   
  
Whiskey sighed and rolled her eyes. She turned back to Victor and Sierra who were still staring at her. Shocked. Maybe a bit grateful. Probably worried, too. Anxious. They were just going to have to sit tight until November decided she was done sulking -- or until Whiskey got bored enough to go look for her. As much as an irritating bitch that November could be, Whiskey still wanted her to come along.    
  
Needed her to, perhaps. Maybe just a little.   
  
"She'll be back," Whiskey said, lighting up and taking a slow, even drag of her cigarette. "She will."   
  
  
;;   
  
  
When November still hadn't come back and the sky had clouded over with the threat of rain, Whiskey had set off to find her.   
  
November was sitting on the front porch of one of the few houses in the middle of the town, wedged between stores and business offices. The front door was boarded up, but both street-facing windows were smashed open, the faded curtains fluttering in the gentle afternoon breeze. She looked up as Whiskey approached, folding her arms across her chest and narrowing her eyes.    
  
"You done sulking yet?" Whiskey asked, leaning against the porch steps railing. "We've got to get going; it'll be raining out soon."   
  
November snorted. Her left eye, now swollen shut, had turned a wretched blue-purple color.  " _Now_  you want me to come along?"   
  
"I always wanted you to come along."   
  
"But you never cared about what I thought."   
  
Whiskey had to force herself not to roll her eyes. "I do care about what you think, Maddie," she said in a soft voice, hoping the use of November's real nickname would sweeten her up a bit. "But we've talked about all of this before. I thought you were okay with Victor and Sierra coming along."   
  
November didn't say anything.   
  
"I know it's hard," Whiskey continued, coming up the steps and moving a bit closer to where November was sitting. "But it's not only that I feel sorry for them, you realize. Having them be with us is invaluable; we won't have to do so much of the work ourselves. And when we get to Los Angeles -- well, you know it isn't going to be easy, by any measure. Sierra and Victor have been nothing but helpful since we've met them; I don't see a reason they shouldn't be traveling with us."   
  
"She will change, though," November said, after several long minutes, sounding much less  angry now. "You know she will, Claire. And we don't know what's going to happen when she does."   
  
Whiskey knelt down beside November, resting cheek against November's knee and finding her hand and threading their fingers together. "She might not change," she said. "She hasn't already."   
  
"It's only a matter of time." November's thumb stroked across the back of Whiskey's hand. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about it any more. Can we just . . . be here?" she asked, in a sweet tone that Whiskey hadn't heard in quite some time. "I'm tired, Claire. I really am. When my parents -- when Julia -- were . . . Well, I never really got a break, did I? I never got any time to -- "   
  
Whiskey straightened up some, bringing her face parallel with November's and pressing their lips together. November stiffened at first and then relaxed, pushing back into the kiss and gripping Whiskey's hand a little bit tighter.   
  
"There'll be time soon enough," Whiskey told her, straightening up the rest of the way and pulling November up out of her chair. She kissed her once more. "But right now, we have to go, because it's going to be pouring out any second and I left the windows down in the Impala."   
  
November smirked. "You always have your priorities straight, don't you?" she said, and followed Whiskey down the steps.   



	3. Chapter 3

Things were better after that.

   
November still kept her distance from Sierra and it was more than a little obvious that she still didn't like her in the least, but she did end up befriending Victor somewhat, Whiskey was pleased to notice. She saw them one day sitting around the Impala, talking about something; she couldn't hear what, but she knew enough by the smile on November's face that she was okay. At least with Victor, anyway, and that was a start. She knew November would probably never warm up to Sierra, but it was nice to see her getting along with someone else for a change.  
   
Whiskey herself _did_ become friends with Sierra -- or as friendly enough as they could be, anyway. Sierra had been in school -- Boston, same as Whiskey when she going to med school -- majoring in photography at the time of the outbreak. She told Whiskey that she'd gotten a scholarship.  
   
"At the time, America seemed like such a dream to me," Sierra'd sighed, as she and Whiskey patrolled along the perimeter of the house where the group was staying for the evening. "It was my dream, of course, to be a professional photographer. Getting my degree was just a small step for me; I was already planning what I'd do next. I hadn't counted on there not _being_ a next."  
   
"None of us did," Whiskey told her, getting out her cigarettes and offering one to Sierra who shook her head no. "I was planning on becoming a doctor."  
   
" _You_?" Sierra laughed.  
   
"What?"  
   
Sierra put up her hands, still grinning. "Nothing. I just can't see you being a doctor is all. You're sort of -- well, I can't imagine you having the best beside manner. And just looking at you makes me think _gunslinger_ , not med student. You know? It seems strange to picture it."  
   
Whiskey blew out a small series of smoke rings. "Well obviously I don't act the same as I did then," she said. "Like everyone else."  
   
"I don't know. I think I'm still the same person I was before the outbreak. Well, generally speaking, that is," she added after a second, gesturing to the bite mark on her arm, which was finally beginning to scar over. "But other than that, I'm pretty sure I haven't changed. At least, I don't _feel_ like I've changed."  
   
Whiskey shrugged and went back to smoking.  
   
Suddenly Sierra asked, "Have you ever seen someone transform?"  
   
Whiskey raised an eyebrow. "Maybe. Why?"  
   
"I've just been wondering what it's like," Sierra said slowly, staring at the ground. "Can you believe I've never actually seen someone transform? I mean, I've seen both the before and after, granted, but not the in-between process. I imagine it's probably . . . A bit painful. All those bones and muscles shifting from one thing to the next." She winced at that. "It sounds awful."  
   
"It _looks_ pretty awful," Whiskey told her, knocking some ash to the ground, watching the breeze catch it and blow it a few feet away. "And I can't speak from experience, but yes, I've heard it's quite painful. Of course, you don't remember it the first time, so there's that. It gets better after that. So I'm told, anyway."  
   
Sierra smiled. "You have a wolf friend who told you all of that?"  
Whiskey focused on her cigarette. "A wolf, yes. Friend, only sort of. It's a long story," she added, as Sierra's questioning look. "She's just someone I used to know."  
   
"And, ah, I imagine November doesn't like this someone?"  
   
Whiskey smirked. "Would you believe me if I said she didn't?"  
   
Sierra laughed at that. "I would, actually. Yes."  
   
"Don't take it personally, you know," Whiskey said later, when she was finished with her cigarette, flicking it off towards the sunset. "It's not really that November doesn't like _you_ , it's that she doesn't like wolves. You just have the unfortunate luck of having been bitten by one. She was just a kid, five years ago. She blames everything on the wolves, even if they're not always in the wrong. But she'll get used to you, eventually."  
   
"How long are you planning on keeping us around?" Sierra asked.  
   
Whiskey shrugged again. "At least until November and I get where we're meant to be going. After that, I don't know."  
   
They lapsed into silence again, rounding the back corner of the building a second time for the final sweep before nightfall. Sierra was the first person Whiskey had had an actual conversation with -- aside from November -- in a long time. Longer than she could remember, actually. All of the places she'd lived in -- North Hero, Glen River -- had provided protection and a place to live. Not friendship. Family.  
   
Whiskey couldn't help but think that maybe it would be good to have Victor and Sierra stay with them permanently. The Impala was a bit crowded for traveling, but it wasn't too bad. And it would be nice to have other people to be around, so that she and November wouldn't always be at each other's throats. It would be good for November, too, Whiskey thought, seeing how she was with Victor. A kid like her needed things; it wouldn't do her any good to always be so isolated from everything and everyone.  
   
As they neared the font door of the building they where staying -- it was an old house that had been converted into a law office -- Sierra turned to Whiskey and smiled.  
   
"I'm glad we ran into you," she said, tentatively reaching out to put her hand on Whiskey's shoulder. "I don't know what Victor and I would have done on our own. We don't have any sort of experience with being hunters. That was always just someone else's job, you know?"  
   
Whiskey managed a small smile in return. "It's good for all of us that we met each other," she said.  
   
It wasn't until later she realized just how much she meant it.

;;

   
"So how's Victor?" Whiskey asked, a few days later, when she and November were lying in bed together. They'd lucked out and found a house that had only recently been discarded, which meant that they had an actual bed to sleep in for the first time in almost two weeks.  
   
"What, haven't you talked to him?" November was lying on her side, propped up on an elbow. With her free hand she was tracing the curve of Whiskey's hip, the bit of skin that lay exposed from where her shirt rode up.  
Whiskey smiled. "Not really. Not much lately, anyway. He's sort of your friend, isn't he?"  
   
November gave a non-committal shrug. "Sort of. He's okay. From Brooklyn. I had a friend who lived there, once. It's something to talk about."  
   
"Well, it's nice," Whiskey told her, finding November's hand and bringing it up to her mouth. She kissed her fingertips, one by one, and then November's palm, before pressing it against her cheek, cradling it. November let out a small, soft sigh and moved in closer, kissing Whiskey's neck through her hair. "I'm glad you have someone to talk to."  
   
"I have you, don't I?" November nosed Whiskey's hair away from her neck to kiss it properly.  
   
Whiskey sighed herself, reaching forward and pulling November in by the shoulders, until November was on top of her, her auburn hair tumbling down and falling in both of their faces, tickling Whiskey's nose. November bent down and kissed Whiskey once, quickly, before leaning back and pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. Whiskey yanked her back down seconds later, crushing their lips together; her hands slipped up the back of November's shirt, undoing her bra in one swift, practiced motion.  
   
"It's not really the same though, is it," she murmured, as her hands slid around to the front, underneath November's shirt and bra, covering her breasts with her palms, feeling the nipples grow hard beneath her touch. November groaned quietly and pushed into Whiskey's hands, her mouth going to Whiskey's neck, sucking hard on a spot until the blood rose to the surface, leaving a light purple bruise.  
   
November sat up, covering Whiskey's hands with her own, over her shirt. "We're not going to talk about this now, are we?" she asked, rocking her hips a bit, straddling Whiskey's hips.  
   
Whiskey shook her head; November grinned and flipped them both over.  
   
"Good," she said, as Whiskey undid her belt and jeans. "Because that would be -- "  
   
"Stop talking now," Whiskey told her firmly, with a rough kiss, working her hand down the front of November's jeans and underwear, grinning at the wetness she found there and stroking deftly with two fingers. November threw her head back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, biting her lip.  
   
Whiskey kissed a trail down from November's ear to along her jaw, to the curve of her neck, while her fingers worked, November twisting underneath her, her hips jerking up slightly every so often. She curled one leg around Whiskey's hip, pulling her in closer; Whiskey ignored the inevitable cramp in her wrist, her knuckles sore from knocking against the zipper of November's jeans. She kissed the space below November's ear, pressed her face against the crook of her neck, while November dug her nails into Whiskey's forearm, urging her onward.  
   
A little while later, Whiskey murmured, right next to November's ear, "Are you about to come?"  
   
November nodded; Whiskey slowed her fingers.  
   
"Can you not?"  
   
November groaned and then laughed, pushing her hips up into Whiskey's fingers as if to dissuade her from stopping. "Maybe. Just."  
   
"You _can_ ," Whiskey said, kissing her once before pulling her hand away from November completely, catching November's own hand and pushing it down the front of Whiskey's own trousers. She grinned down at November, flushed and sweaty. "You're good at working for things, remember?"  
   
November responded by pressing her back against the bed with a kiss, before sliding down to the edge of the bed and tugging Whiskey's jeans and underwear along with her, until they were off, discarded to the side, November kneeling on the floor between Whiskey's legs.  
   
"I am indeed," she finally said with a mischievous grin, kissing the inside of Whiskey's thigh. "I am indeed."

;;

   
Two days later when they were sitting on the hood of the Impala, waiting for Sierra and Victor to come back from checking out the gas station they'd stopped at to see if it was safe and wolf-free and if the pumps were still working, November said, "Why?"  
   
"Why what," Whiskey muttered, shaking her lighter furiously to try and get it to work, holding her cigarette tightly between her teeth. "I can't read your fucking mind."  
   
November rolled her eyes and pulled out a book of matches, striking one and lighting Whiskey's cigarette for her. Whiskey chucked her useless lighter off into the distance; it landed several feet away in a field of long, gold-green grass.  
   
"I was just wondering something," November said, sitting back on her hands and squinting in the bright morning sunlight. "Why Sierra hasn't changed yet."  
   
Whiskey sighed, exhaling two long streams of smoke through her nose. "I don't know," she said, with a slight shrug, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette, her throat burning from the smoke. "Bennett never said anything about that sort of thing, did she? It just must be taking a while for the disease to kick in, probably. After all, it's not like everyone changes instantly, like your friend did."  
   
November seemed to bristle a bit at that. "I'm just _saying_ ," she said, with a bit of a tone. "It's weird. And it's probably something obvious, why she hasn't changed yet. We just can't see it."  
   
"If you spend too much time thinking about wolves and how they work, you're going to be very uninteresting and I am not going to talk to you," Whiskey teased, shooting a grin over at November, who looked thoroughly un-amused. "You can't figure it out, November," she continued, more serious now. "It's not a natural disease, so you can't expect it to act like one. There are variations, flukes. Like anything, it depends on the individual's genetic makeup and how their body works. You can't really explain any anomalies -- at least not in this case, because we don't know how _everyone_ who's been bitten has been affected by it."  
   
Victor and Sierra appeared from behind the building looking no worse for wear; Whiskey pushed herself off the hood of the Impala.  
   
"Honestly," she said to November, who still looked unconvinced. "Don't worry about it. We'll have time to figure it out later. Right now we've got other things to worry about."  
   
"Well, we may have _her_ to worry about soon enough," November said sullenly, jerking her head in Sierra's direction, but she climbed down off the hood and went to go talk to Victor anyway.  
   
Sierra came up to the car, slipping off her jacket and stuffing it into the backseat through the open window. She leaned against the door and they stood there for a bit, Whiskey smoking, Sierra watching Victor. "You all right?" Sierra finally asked, turning to look at her.  
   
Whiskey glanced over at November, who was talking to Victor about something, both of them leaning against the gas pump. "Fine," finishing her her cigarette and tossing it on the ground, stamping it out with her foot. "Come on," she said, and shoved her hands into her pockets and headed off to where Victor and November were. "Let's get this done. We have a lot of ground to cover today."  
   
Sierra nodded and followed her.  
   
They were on the road in less than half an hour with a full tank of gas, the windows down as Whiskey drove, pushing the Impala as fast as she dared to go; though the roads were mostly straight and flat, they were still technically back roads, and Whiskey wasn't ready to rule out any chance of something coming up all of a sudden and taking them by surprise. At the same time, she really wanted to be out of Montana by this evening, or at least close to New Helena.  
   
They'd gone slow in the past few days, due in part to the fact that they'd been running low on both food and water and everything had to be rationed out. Near the edge of North Dakota they'd finally stumbled upon an abandoned grocery store, which, luckily, had been fully stocked with canned goods. That had helped, but they were still low on water and it was making everyone tired and sluggish.  
   
But Whiskey was determined to get to Idaho by week's end. If they covered enough ground they'd find water _eventually_ , she knew. Or something else, but water was their best bet as they didn't have to worry about it going bad in the heat.  
   
It was almost nightfall when they finally stopped for the day. They'd managed to get just past New Helena and ended up right near the border between Montana and Idaho. Whiskey found a little town called Red Lodge, which was way off the beaten path, but, Whiskey knew, would keep them safe from wolf attacks. It was too far removed from New Helena and its suburbs and, in addition to that, it was all flat, open land. Wolves -- the kind who were purebred hunters like the kind November and Whiskey had encountered in Iowa -- wouldn't be hiding in a place like this as they'd be too easy to spot.  
   
"Hey, there's a water pump out back," November had said, grinning earnestly as she came around from the back of the small town store on the main drag where they'd chosen to stay the night. "Lucky us, right? I don't know how much water's still left in the well, but I imagine there's probably enough for us to refill our canteens."  
   
"Oh, thank God," Sierra murmured, fanning herself with her hand, sitting in the backseat with the driver's seat pushed down, legs out the open door. "I thought we were seriously going to run into trouble with that."  
   
"Told you," Whiskey said from the porch, while Victor unpacked the supplies they needed from the car and brought them into the shop. "Now, listen," she continued, to no one in particular, chomping down on an unlit cigarette because none of them had a lighter and November had run out of matches, "the layout of this place is pretty simple. There's the downstairs shop, which is in front, and in back is mainly storage area, which is a bit tight. The back's divided into two sections with a door about three-quarters of the way in. There are bedrooms on the second level, with a kitchen, but the stairs look iffy to me, so I'd keep downstairs to avoid injury. There's another door that is boarded up that I guess goes down to the basement, but there's no reason to go down there anyway."  
   
"Where are we staying?" Sierra drawled from the car, fixing her ponytail and wiping the sweat from her brow.  
   
"You and Victor can stay in the back, if you'd like." Whiskey leaned on the railing, discarding her cigarette; the taste of raw tobacco in her mouth was off-putting. "November and I will be in the front, that way we can keep a watch on the street."  
   
"What about guard duty?" Victor asked, joining Whiskey on the porch. "Do you want me to take the first shift tonight?"  
   
Whiskey didn't know.  
   
"I can take it," November volunteered, leaning against the Impala near Sierra. "It's been a while since I've taken first shift and anyway, I feel so keyed up right now that I may as well stay up. You can take it after me though, if you want," she said to Victor who smiled and nodded.  
   
"Sure."  
   
Sierra climbed out of the car, stretching with a groan. "Well, if we're all done with the planning portion of this evening, I am going to get us some water and start cooking dinner. If that's okay with everyone."  
   
November crossed her arms and said nothing. Whiskey made a small sound of agreement and reached for her container of bourbon. Victor mumbled something about Sierra needing help getting the water started and trotted off dutifully after her. Whiskey looked up at November, over her flask, meeting her eyes.  
   
"You aren't going to have an attitude tonight, are you?"  
   
November scowled and pushed herself off the car. "I'm just tired," she said shortly, climbing up the steps and breezing past Whiskey on the porch. Whiskey heard the click of the door shut behind her and sighed, hoping the relatively good day thus far would not end up ruined.

;;

   
She was out on the porch again with November, sitting on the front steps and sharing a cigarette (November had found a box of matches near the cash register), kissing intermittently, when they first heard the scream from inside  
   
"Holy fuck, what the hell is that?" November asked, twisting around and staring at the shop. "Whiskey, do you -- "  
   
She was interrupted by another scream. Whiskey shot up, tossing away her cigarette and yanking open the front door. "It's Sierra," she said, as November scrambled up and followed her inside. "She's changing."  
   
Victor was standing by the counter, frozen with shocked; Sierra was on the ground, screaming; it looked as though every muscle in her body was tense, her eyes glowing gold in the dim fluorescent shop light. She'd only just begun to transform, but the only way she'd be safe was if they locked her up -- and fast. Whiskey knew it was only a matter of minutes before she'd be a fully transformed wolf.  
   
And then she'd be dangerous.  
   
"What do we do?" Victor asked frantically, as Sierra twisted on the ground, contorting with pain. "I don't! -- Whiskey, what do we _do_?"  
   
But Whiskey was already reaching for Sierra and picking her up, holding on tightly to her shoulders and calves so that Sierra wouldn't be able to wrench herself free. "We've got to get her to the back," she yelled at Victor, who stood there, dumbstruck. "We need to get her to a place where we can lock her up until she de-transforms."  
   
" _Victor_ ," November said sharply, giving him a shove and startling him out of his daze. "Come on, fucking _move_. Whiskey's going to need help locking Sierra up." She pressed his pistol against his hands; he reached up slowly to take it, as if unsure. November turned to Whiskey. "Come on. He's fucking useless right now. We'll have to do it ourselves."  
   
Whiskey could barely keep her grip on Sierra as they made their way to the back of the shop to where the storage room was. A quick glance down at Sierra indicated that she was already beginning to transform; her eyes had turned a dusty yellow color, her teeth were longer, sharper.  
   
"Fuck," Whiskey grunted, shifting Sierra's weight in her arms.  
   
November, ahead, had opened the storage room door and stood there ready, waiting. Whiskey dumped Sierra into the room as gently as she could. Sierra was thrashing wildly now and her clothes were beginning to tear; they didn't have much time.  
   
"Quick," Whiskey said, slamming the door shut and bolting it closed. "We need to find something to barricade the door. It won't be strong enough to hold on its own once she's fully changed."  
   
She spotted an old desk off the side and moved towards it. November, catching on, moved as well and together they pushed it in front of the door.  November then began to pile other things in front  and on top of the desk; packing crates, benches, and a few bricks, which she wedged between the space from the floor to the bottom of the door. Whiskey checked the barrel of her Colt to make sure it was full, giving a spin and snapping it back into place with a frown.  
   
November took a step back from the pile in front of the door just as something solid collided with the door from inside the storage room. There was the sound of a low growl and another _bang_ as Sierra, clearly now wolf form, tried to break down the door; the door shook, but held. From inside the storage room came a high, long howl. November and Whiskey glanced at each other.  
   
"It'll hold," November said, not even sounding the least bit confident.  
   
"If it doesn't . . . " Whiskey cocked her gun. She looked back over at November, who had taken a further step back. "You know what we'll have to do."  
   
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," November's mouth was a hard, straight line. "I don't want to deal with Victor later. Do you?"  
   
Whiskey sat down on an upturned basket, keeping her gun and eyes fixed on the door.  "Not particularly."  
   
November came over to sit on the floor beside Whiskey.  
It was a long while before November spoke again. "I've figured it out," she said, tracing circles along Whiskey's calf, gun discarded to the side.  
   
Whiskey looked at her, curious.  
   
"Well, it's been a month, hasn't it?" November looked up at her. "Or almost, anyway. When we first met Sierra and Victor, it was on the first night of a new moon. This is the first full moon we've had in a month. That's why she hadn't transformed until now. Right?"  
   
"Oh," Whiskey said, feeling dumb. "Of course. It being a _werewolf_ virus and all. She probably didn't get enough of the virus in her on the first attack; it took a while for it to set in. And of course the full moon would be the thing to trigger it. Yeah." She reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair out behind November's ear. "Good call, kid."  
   
"And you said it wasn't worth thinking about," November said smugly, but she was smiling the whole time.  
   
Whiskey grinned, leaning back a little against the wall. "Well count me wrong," she said. "For once, anyway."  
   
They stayed like that until the sun came up the next morning. At one point November had nodded off to sleep, her head resting against Whiskey's thigh, and Whiskey had just smiled down at her, patted her head, and lit another cigarette. Sierra had stopped trying to break the door down after an hour or so of fruitless efforts and for the rest of the night had been mostly quiet. Every so often Whiskey heard her scratching at the door, claws hitting against the wood and metal and brick; the sound made Whiskey feel sick to listen to. She'd smoked through her entire pack of Marlboros and finished off whatever was left in her flask.  
   
Around one in the morning, Victor had stepped into the back to see how things were going. He'd been keeping guard out front while Whiskey and November were occupied in the back. "I figured I'd be better help if I stayed out of the way," he'd said, forcing a laugh. Glancing over at the door, he'd said, "Is she -- is she in there?"  
   
"She's fine," Whiskey'd told him. "Been quiet for almost an hour now. But November," she looked down at the sleeping November at her feet, smiling, "and I are going to stay here for the rest of the evening, I think. Just to make sure everything goes smoothly, right?"  
   
Victor'd nodded understandingly and had said goodnight, heading back towards the front of the shop.  
   
Her eyes were burning; it had been a while since she'd sat up the whole night. She nudged November awake.  
   
November started, jolting awake. "What?"  
   
"Relax," Whiskey said, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead. "It's just morning. We should check on Sierra."  
   
"How is she?" November glanced at the door.  
   
"She's been quite now for the past hour. She's probably de-transformed at this point and just asleep. I imagine she's probably pretty worn out. Hey, Sierra!" Whiskey stood up, calling through the door. "You okay?"  
   
There was the faint sound of shuffling and a moment later Sierra's voice drifted up from the storage room. "Whiskey? Did I fall asleep?"  
   
"For a little while," Whiskey said and motioned for November to start moving the makeshift barricade away from the door. "November and I are going to let you out, okay? Listen, it should be fine. The first transformation is the only one you can't control -- after that, it's  all a matter of will. I need you to just make sure that you stay yourself from now on."  
   
"I think I can do that." Sierra's voice was a little clearer.  
   
Whiskey helped November to move the desk away from the door and kicked the bricks out of place. She undid the dead bolt and swung the door open, to reveal Sierra, her hair wild and unkempt, ripped clothes sagging and not covering much at all. There were dark circles under her eyes and a few cuts and bruises on her arms. There was a smudge of blood along her cheek. The scar on her left shoulder stood out against her tan skin, white and warning.  
   
"Here," November said, surprising Whiskey by taking off her coat and handing it Sierra. "You can wear this until we find you some new clothes."  
   
"Well, that was nice," Whiskey murmured to November, as they walked with Sierra out to the front of the shop to where Victor was waiting. "Did you have a change of heart?"  
   
November frowned and eyed her. "I just feel a bit bad, is all," she said, with a great amount of difficulty.  
   
Whiskey said nothing, but found herself grinning anyway.

;;

   
On the way past New Olympia, November spotted a blue paint handprint of the corner of one of the road signs.  
   
"What does that mean?" she asked, pointing back in the direction of the sign as the Impala sped down the road. "I've never seen one of those before."  
   
"It's a signal," Whiskey said, glanced over at her. "There must be a safe house coming up. Strange that there's one all the way up here."  
   
November asked, "A safe house? What's that?"  
   
"You really don't know?" Victor said from the backseat. "It's a place where purebreds can stay. Like, where they can be granted asylum and all that if they're in trouble. Those places are like fortresses, with weapons and traps up to here." He was grinning. "Sierra and I used to stay at one of them, back in Ohio, but like most safe houses, it soon became overcrowded, so we split. But a safe house in _Washington_? That's got to have room for us, at least for a bit."  
   
Whiskey was hesitant to stop, though. She said as much.  
   
"But why?" November said, whining. "A bit of rest will do us some good, Whiskey."  
   
"See, this is exactly why I've been avoiding them," Whiskey rolled her eyes, staring down the road to where a town loomed, far in the distance. "Because they're nothing but trouble. It's not like Glen River," she told November, whose face fell a little. "You've got a bunch of people all stuck into one house together. Fortress or not, if there was a serious wolf attack, you'd be stuck in there without much chance of getting out. They're like fucking death traps."  
   
"So we'll only stay for a night," November argued. "Just one night and then we can be back on the road."  
   
Whiskey sighed. Adelle had told her about a safe house in New Hampshire once, about how the wolves had just zeroed in on it and in a matter of days the owners were kicking people out. Human sacrifices, almost. The food and water supply couldn't be left to dwindle to nothing. Eventually the wolves had been chased away, yes, but at that point the residency of the house had dropped from twenty people to only three. Maybe it wasn't always an issue, but the fact that such a thing _could_ happen worried Whiskey.  
   
She didn't like to take chances. Not when she could avoid them all together.  
   
But at the same time, she knew that the others were tired. Sierra had slept for nearly four days straight after her first transformation and Whiskey knew that she was struggling to keep the wolf part of her under control. It took practice in order to be able to change into a wolf when you _wanted_ to; Sierra hadn't had the time to learn that sort of thing. Whiskey was admittedly a bit worried that Sierra was going to change on them one day while they were driving.  
   
And then they'd be completely fucked.  
   
"All right," she said at last. "We'll find the safe house. But it's only for _one night_ , got it?"  
   
November nodded. Whiskey looked up and met Victor's eyes in the rearview mirror. He hesitated for a moment, glanced over at Sierra -- who was, of course, sleeping -- and then nodded as well. Fine then; it was settled. Whiskey supposed that one evening wouldn't hurt. Not too much, she didn't think.  
   
Or so she hoped, anyway.

;;

   
The safe house was on the edge of Washington, near New Salem. It made Whiskey jumpy, being so close to a wolf city. And of course they had to pay a fee for the evening's stay; Whiskey had paid out of pocket, grumbling the whole time about it, until November had pulled her aside and kissed her so softly that Whiskey thought maybe it was worth it. For everyone else's sake, anyway, if not for hers.  
   
They were upstairs in one of the smaller bedrooms, Whiskey sitting near the window smoking, Victor and Sierra curled up on one of the beds, November sitting on the other bed, attempting to roll her own cigarettes, when a short girl with blood red hair poked her head into the room and knocked once on the door frame.  
   
"Yeah?" Whiskey asked, turning away from the window. "What is it?"  
   
"You're Whiskey, yeah?" the girl asked, then went on at Whiskey's nod, "Thought so. Alex said I might find you up here. I guess you've got some sort of message waiting downstairs. Or wait, sorry, it might be a person. Or persons. I'm sorry," she said again, glancing around the room timidly. "There's a lot of noise downstairs. Dinner and all that. Anyway. I guess the long and short of it is that you're wanted out by the back door."  
   
Whiskey raised an eyebrow. "What, just me?"  
   
"No, actually, all of you."  
   
"What's this all about," November murmured to Whiskey as they made their way downstairs and to the back of the house. The guard at the door unlocked it for them and gestured for them to go outside. "Whiskey, do you know what's going on?"  
   
Whiskey didn't.  
   
The door of the safe house closed behind them with a sharp click. There was the distinct sounds of locks being bolted into place. Brilliant. This definitely didn't feel like a trap at all. Whiskey should have known better -- should have known better _especially_ not to bring everyone else with her while she was being led into a trap. Only she and November carried their weapons on them at all times; if there was trouble, Victor and Sierra would be screwed.  
   
At first it was quiet. And then --  
   
"Well, hello," a voice said, to her right.  
   
Whiskey jumped, whipping out her Colt, cocking it. "Who is it?"  
   
The figure stepped away from the house and out of the deep shadows that the early evening moon had cast. "Now Whiskey," Bennett drawled, one corner of her mouth turned up in a smug grin, obviously pleased that she'd put them on guard. "Is that really the way you treat your visitors? No wonder you're not more popular. And here I was thinking you'd be happy to see me."  
   
"Bennett," Whiskey said, genuinely surprised, putting her gun away. "What are you doing here?"  
   
"Magic," Bennett said, smirking. "But not really. No. You forget, Whiskey, that I have connections. Connections, that you don't. And I knew. I knew that as soon as I told you about Caroline -- of _course_ Caroline, sweet -- that you'd run to Los Angeles. So, so predictable."  
   
"So -- what? Other than coming to gloat over your superiority, I don't understand why you'd be here."  
   
Bennett's smirk widened into a large grin. "I know what you're thinking. It's not -- it isn't -- anything bad. Not bad at all. In fact, I've come to help you."  
   
Whiskey raised an eyebrow; November said, "Help us?"  
   
Bennett turned her gaze to November. "I thought Whiskey might know by now, my feelings on Caroline. I don't particularly like her. Not much. Not at all. But I'd like to see, uh, see Caroline for myself again. Thank her for her little parting gift." Her eyes flicked down to her dead arm and then back up to Whiskey. "I know _you'd_ be able to find her, Whiskey. So I brought along a present of sorts. A surprise."  
   
She turned her head and nodded to whoever was standing off to the side.  
   
Two figures stepped out from the shadows. They were both girls, with long, dark hair. The older looking one, with pale, olive-colored skin and dull brown eyes, was dressed in a dark blue wife beater and tight, black jeans. She looked almost bored, tying her hair up into a ponytail. It was the exact opposite expression that her companion wore; decked out in all black, with knee-high lace up boots, gun hanging near her hip  attached to a thin chain that looped from the back of her baggy cargo pants to the front, she stood there scowling at Whiskey and her companions, arms crossed.  
   
Whiskey narrowed her eyes. "Who're they, Bennett?"  
   
"They'll be your guides. Protection, too, maybe. They're the only expert wolf-hunters on this side of the States. Along the West Coat, in any case. Maybe not as good as you, Whiskey, but," Bennett trailed off, flashing them a smile that showed too much teeth. Her eyes glowed in the semi-darkness of early evening. "I think you'll find they're quite, suitable, indeed, very much suitable."  
   
"We can take care of ourselves," November spoke up, looking cross. "We've gotten this far."  
   
"Because you were heading to Los Angeles," Bennett snapped, sounding annoyed. "Or at least _thought_ you were. Thought indeed -- Los Angeles is not where you want to be heading. You need to go further inward. Tucson."  
   
Whiskey was confused. "What? Why there? There's been no news from Arizona, Bennett, not in years."  
   
"But see, that's the trick. Sneaky, clever trick. They've built up their own little wall of silence down there. Keep out the rumors. The questions. Keep the silence so that you get done what needs to be done. That's where they've been working on their little project, Whiskey. Tucson. Do you want to find the end and the beginning? Do you want to find Caroline Farrell? That is where you need to go."  
   
"So what do we need guides for?" Victor asked, suddenly, stepping forward. "So we're going to Tucson instead of L.A., big deal. November's right; we've done everything by ourselves thus far. Why send help now?"  
   
The older stranger spoke up. "Because what you've seen so far? It's nothing." Her tone was tired, weary. As if she'd relayed this information a thousand times before. "Tucson is where the secrets are being guarded and you can bet that the wolves are protecting it. And what's _inside_ Tucson -- do you know the Rossum corporation? The company that created the werewolf virus in the first place? Tucson is their headquarters. Inside there are where Omega and Alpha -- and others, possibly -- are. They won't go down easy."  
   
"And you need a guide," Bennett said again. "Or guides. People who have spent time in this area. Who know how to be just as clever as the wolves. As Rossum."  
   
Whisky frowned. She wasn't at all keen on the idea of taking along _more_ people. With so many of them together, they'd stand out more. Wolves would be more likely to come after them, suspicious. It was a risk. On the other hand, as far as she could tell, these new hunters were both purebreds; it was a small thing that made them more trustworthy. And if Bennett said was true, it would be dangerous getting from here to Arizona. Bennett could be tricky to deal with at times, but Whiskey knew that there was bad blood between Caroline and Bennett and she knew for certain that -- at least in this case -- Bennett was genuinely offering help.  
   
Or help enough so that they could find Caroline for her. The ends justifying the means and all. Whiskey didn't really care about that. At some point in time the mission in her head had turned from _saving Caroline_ to simply _figuring out just what the fuck was going on_. Rossum and government conspiracies? Genetic testing with new werewolf drugs? A whole city just vanishing off the map -- or, at least, off the rumor mill? It was doing her head in.  
   
Still. It wouldn't hurt to have a bit of extra arsenal on her end.  
   
"Fine," Whiskey said at last, hands on her hips. "If you -- or well, _they_ \-- want to help, then I suppose I have no choice but to accept." She jerked her head in the strangers' direction. "Aren't you going to properly introduce us, Bennett?"  
   
Bennett grinned. "That's Juliet and that's Kilo," she said, pointing first to the older woman and then to her companion. "Another reason to like them, Whiskey: they seem to share your little penchant -- quirk -- for nicknames. I thought that might enamor them to you a bit more."  
   
"Those names are from the NATO phonetic alphabet," Victor murmured, from the back. "Like ours."  
   
"Like Alpha and Omega, you mean," Kilo said, in a sharp tone. "Why else do you think we picked them?" Her eyes narrowed in Whiskey's direction, obviously sizing her up. "Isn't that right? Whiskey?"  
   
"Right," Whiskey lied, frowning.  
   
She wasn't about to tell them that she and Caroline  had read about the alphabet a long time ago, in their first year of college. Caroline had been fascinated by it; it gave depth to her fantasy about one day saving the world. She'd taken a liking to the name Echo, for some strange reason. Whiskey hadn't understood it; it had been one of those Caroline things that only she knew the meaning of. But she'd known, the instant Bennett had said she was involved, the reason why Caroline had picked such a name; Omega was simply an evolution of Echo.  
   
Of course.  
   
"Well," Bennett drawled, eyes flicking back and forth between Kilo, Juliet, and Whiskey and her companions, as if trying to judge how things were going to work out between them. "I'll leave you to it then, yes? Leave. I have to be getting back to D.C. anyway." She pushed her glasses further up on her nose with one finger. "They might start to miss me. And that wouldn't be good. Wouldn't be good. Take care Whiskey, won't you?"  
   
She turned to leave.  
   
"Oh, and Sierra," she added, turning back. "Of course I know who you are, don't look so shocked. That's a lovely little bite you've got there. Tell me," she said, eyes glowing. "How was it, your first time? Not too rough?"  
   
"Bennett," Whiskey warned, hand settling back on her gun. "Don't wear out your welcome."  
   
Bennett shrugged and turned away, but Whiskey could tell from the tone of her voice that she was smiling. "Ah, well, goodbye then. Take care. Try not to die."

;;

   
November seemed to take an instant liking to Kilo, even though Whiskey could see that for the most part, Kilo wanted nothing to do with her. Apparently they really just were there to _help_ and nothing other than that; they certainly didn't try to make friends with Whiskey and the others. They had their own car that they traveled in -- a shiny Ford pickup truck that looked like it had a custom paint job -- and during down time and stops they kept to themselves.                       
   
"What's their problem?" Sierra huffed, setting down her bag for the evening, as Kilo scowled in her direction.  
   
They were staying in what appeared to be an old warehouse that Kilo and Juliet had led them to. It was well off the beaten path and Whiskey had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she probably wouldn't have found the place on her own. So maybe Bennett was a little right in sending along help, even if they weren't the nicest of company.  
   
"Forget it," Whiskey told her, striking a match to start a fire so dinner could be cooked. "They have their own thing going on. As long as they're on our side, that's all that matters."  
   
"Sometimes I wonder _whose_ side they're on." Victor glanced over quickly. "They're always off by themselves, talking in low voices; I don't like it. It makes me suspicious. And you know that you can't trust anyone nowadays."  
   
"I trusted _you_ ," Whiskey snapped, suddenly irritated. She didn't like her decisions being questioned, especially when she had so many other things to worry about. "I trusted you _and_ Sierra, even though she'd been bitten. Bennett and I go way back; I know her. And I know how she feels about Caroline. She wouldn't set us up, not for this. If she says they're trustworthy, they're trustworthy."  
   
The look on Victor's face showed that he didn't agree at all, but he thankfully held his tongue. Whiskey usually only roughed up November, but she could put other people in their places too, if need be. But she wasn't really in the mood, on account of the long hours she'd put in today driving. Hopefully Victor -- and Sierra, by default -- would know enough to keep his mouth shut. At least for now.  
   
She needed a smoke.  
   
She found November outside, pushing open the door with a cigarette held between her teeth, fumbling in her pocket for matches. November was sitting in the Impala, one leg hanging out the door, the other propped up on the dashboard. She was sipping from a bottle of JD; she looked up as Whiskey approached.  
   
"Hey."  
   
"You should be inside helping."  
   
"Don't ride me, Claire," November said, wincing as she took a long swig of bourbon. "Do I have to fucking baby-sit Victor and Sierra every fucking evening? At least they're keeping busy and staying out of our hair. Or do I have to go hold their hands and teach them how unpack a goddamn sleeping bag?"  
   
Whiskey kicked at her leg. "Don't be a prick," she said.  
   
She snatched the bottle of bourbon away from November and climbed into the backseat. A simple tug on November's shirt was enough for her to close the door and crawl into the back as well. She laid down, stretching out, her head in Whiskey's lap, Whiskey stroking her absentmindedly, nursing the JD and wondering if it would be a problem if she got drunk. It'd been so long since she'd done anything that fun.  
   
Eventually November grew restless, sitting up and leaning on Whiskey's shoulder, pressing kisses all along her neck, shoulder, and the side of Whiskey's face. "Come on, Claire," she murmured in Whiskey's ear, her breath hot; she kissed the space right below it. "We have time."  
   
"This is very inappropriate," Whiskey told her, even as she took November's hand and guided it up her shirt, leaning back with a sigh as November's hand worked its way underneath her bra. "If someone was to see us . . . " She trailed off, loosening her belt.  
   
November grinned. "Yeah."  
   
Whiskey was just leaning back against the seats, pleased, when suddenly there was a knock on the passenger side window. "Whiskey?" Victor called through the window, with a twinge of uncertainty.  
   
"Fuck," Whiskey muttered, sighing in frustration before gritting her teeth and straightening herself out. Then, louder, "Yeah, all right Victor, I'll be out in a moment. Hang on." She kissed November once, quickly, then pushed down the passenger seat, opening the door and climbing out. "Yeah?" she finally asked, hands on her hips. "What is it?"  
   
"Sorry," Victor said, glancing over her shoulder as November clambered out of the car as well. "But dinner's almost ready and Kilo and Juliet have been asking for you. They want to discuss watch duty for tonight and tomorrow's travel plans."  
   
"Of course. And I suppose it can't wait, can it?"  
   
Victor smiled weakly. "Well, you know how they are. Sort of . . . pushy."  
   
Whiskey rolled her eyes. "Come on," she said to November, who trotted along dutifully behind her as they made their way back inside.

;;

   
Juliet had first shift on guard duty, then November.  
   
Sierra had gamely volunteered to help out on guard duty as well, but Kilo and Juliet had voted against it; the sky was too clear out in these parts, they said. It wouldn't be wise to allow her to be exposed so much to the moon, given her limited capability of controlling her wolf side. Sierra had looked spitting angry at that, but to her merit -- and Whiskey was glad to see this -- she hadn't argued back. And anyway, it wasn't as if it wasn't true; they couldn't afford to take any risks, especially when they were getting so close to Tucson.  
   
Whiskey went out for a smoke around nine, while November was resting up and the evening was beginning to settle in properly and the moon was shining down so brightly that it coated everything with pale silver light; it made the windows in Whiskey's Impala and Kilo's truck look like they were glowing. She'd stepped around to the side and was just lighting up when she heard voices a few yards away.  
   
She was instantly on guard, but for no reason; as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that it was only Juliet and Kilo, standing along the building and talking. Juliet had her hands in her pockets and Kilo was leaning in next to her, one hand on the wall near Juliet's head, her face inches away from Juliet's. Whiskey watched silently, cigarette left smoldering between two fingers, momentarily forgotten, as Kilo moved in further, kissing Juliet.  
   
Juliet's hands came out of her pockets, tangled themselves in Kilo's hair. Whiskey took a long, slow drag, exhaling through her nose. Oh, she thought. Well.  
   
As Juliet moved downward, kissing along the slope of Kilo's neck, Kilo sighed and turned her head a bit, allowing Juliet greater purchase. It was then, just as Whiskey was about to finish up her cigarette and go inside, that Kilo opened her eyes.  
   
It was as she'd been caught looking at something she shouldn't have been -- and maybe she had. Or so it felt, anyway, and yet despite herself Whiskey couldn't look away. Neither of them made a sound, eyes meeting across the distance between them. Juliet, unknowing, continued to press kisses against Kilo's neck. Whiskey could hear a faint, pleased humming; it sounded very loud in the night's thick silence.  Kilo's eyes burned into her. Knowing. Accusing. Of what, Whiskey didn't quite know. But she could feel it. It felt, almost, as if it was a challenge. Like they were sizing each other up.  
   
And then a second later, it was gone.Whiskey shrugged, took one last greedy drag of her cigarette and dropped it to the dirt, grinding it out with a little more force than was nessecary. Kilo looked away, turning back to Juliet, who apparently remained oblivious to the whole encounter.  
   
Whatever; November was waiting for her inside.

;;

   
As expected, November was in one of the side rooms of the warehouse -- it looked like it had been an office at one point. November had shoved a desk against the wall near a bookcase and had spread out their blankets, pillows, and worn out sleeping bags on the floor. Whiskey hated sleeping on the floor, but it was better than trying to stuff herself up in the backseat of the Impala. Plus, she had November, who proved her usefulness by being something to cuddle with.  
   
"You should be sleeping," Whiskey said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "You'll have to be up in five hours to switch duty with Kilo."  
   
"I've gone on less sleep before." November patted the space next to her, putting aside her gun, which she'd been polishing. "Come here, Whiskey," she said.  
   
They shut off the lights; November had opened the blinds so that moonlight could pour into the room. Like outside, it cast a silver glow over everything in the room. They'd both stripped down to a tank top and their underwear and since it was too hot of a night for blankets, they lay on top of them. November had let her hair down and Whiskey was playing with a strand of it, slowly curling and uncurling it between two fingers.  
   
"Do you think it's really worth it?" November asked after a long while.  
   
Whiskey was drowsy; she hadn't had a proper night's sleep in a while and all of the long, flat roads that they'd been driving on hadn't helped. "Is what worth it," she mumbled, discarding the strand of hair she'd been playing with and pulling November towards her. She buried her face in the crook of November's neck, inhaling deeply; she smelled like soap and sweat and smoke.  
   
A bit like bourbon, too.  
   
November's hand found hers, squeezed gently. "I mean, about Caroline," she said quietly. "And Tucson. And everything else."  
   
Whiskey kissed November's neck through her hair.  
   
"I just wonder sometimes," November went on slowly, "if maybe this just isn't going to work out the way we want it to. Maybe things are going to go horribly wrong. I wonder what it would be like if we hadn't left Glen River. You know? We had it good there. It could have been nice. Just staying there forever."  
   
"You know it wouldn't have lasted forever, though."  
   
"Yeah," November sighed.  
   
Whiskey nosed the hair away from November's neck and kissed the exposed skin there, feeling November relax against her, tired. She didn't really want to talk about this now. Mostly because a part of her had wondered the same things more than once. But also because it seemed pointless to question it all now, especially when they were getting so close to finding Caroline. So close to finding out some answers -- or so she thought, anyway.  
   
All she wanted to do now was sleep. There was no use in wondering what could have been; all that was worth thinking about now was tomorrow and the days after that until they reached Tucson. And after that the only thing that mattered was Caroline. Or Omega, if she was really called that. Alpha and Omega. The end and the beginning. Life and death. She felt herself smiling; of course Caroline would want to name herself something like that. Clever. Important. Special.  
   
"Wake me up when you go out for duty," Whiskey murmured sleepily in November's ear. "Like always."  
   
November shifted until they were once more face to face, pressing a soft kiss to Whiskey's lips. It felt like she was smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

Kilo came up to her the next morning while she was washing up in the downstairs bathroom. The water was ice cold and tinted a light brown color, but it wasn't often that they found a place with running water. It was a nice change, not having to worry about conserving what water they did have. Whiskey felt thoroughly clean for the first time in ages.  
  
"I'm not a queer," Kilo said, arms crossed.  
   
Whiskey looked up from toweling her hair. "What?"  
   
"I'm _not_ a queer."  
   
"O-kay," Whiskey said slowly, drying off her hands and trying to figure out what Kilo was talking about. And then she remembered; she'd seen her and Juliet kissing the evening before. She hadn't even thought of it again until just now. "Oh, right," she said, chucking her towel to the side. "That."  
   
Kilo's expression didn't change. "Like I _said_ , I -- it isn't what you think."  
   
"Right, yes." Whiskey waved her hands dismissively and reached for her shirt, tugging it back on. "Well, I don't really care one way or the other, Kilo, truth be told. I don't think I need to tell you about the relationship that November and I have. What you do and who you are? Doesn't concern me. I have bigger things to worry about."  
   
She moved to leave; Kilo's hand shot out, catching Whiskey's arm.  
   
"Juliet and I _aren't_ like you and November," she said, in a slightly strained voice. "Bennett told us about your -- _inclinations_. The difference between us is that I _chose_ it. We're _not_ the same."  
   
Whiskey shook her off. "So? Like I said, I don't give a fuck. And I'm not going to say anything about it, if that's what you're so worried about. I get it now, though, why you two have been staying away from the rest of us. Don't want to associate with people that aren't like you."  
   
"Now, wait," Kilo said suddenly, face softening a bit. "That's isn't true. You misunderstand; it's not you and November we have a problem with. Not even Victor. We just don't like the wolf -- Sierra."  
   
Whiskey knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but she was anyway. Of course, it always came down to the fact that Sierra was a wolf; first with November now with these two. Kilo and Juliet had done business with Bennett, so they couldn't have had that much of an issue with wolves. Then again, Bennett could be rather persuasive when she wanted to be; shy, sweet Sierra didn't have the same sort of charisma that Bennett did.  
   
"We would have guessed about her being a wolf regardless," Kilo went on, "even if Bennett hadn't said anything about it. Even without the scar on her shoulder, her eyes give her away. Bright amber; it's not the sort of color that purebreds have now is it?"  
   
"She's safe," Whiskey told her, staring her down; she was getting fucking tired of people making snap-judgements about the wolves she knew. Especially if those people had made deals with a wolf in the first place. "She's had her first transformation and none since. She's working on keeping it under control. _You_ don't have to worry about it. I've taken care of things."  
   
Kilo frowned, taking a slight step back. "What if she's not safe? What if she turns one day? Do you have a plan for that?"  
   
Whiskey sighed. "I do."  
   
"And?"  
   
"And if she becomes uncontrollable, we take the next natural step. We kill her."  
   
A broad smile broke out across Kilo's face. "It's reassuring that you're just as serious as Bennett said you were. I thought you might be a bit of a fake, you know. Full of talk and nothing to back it up. Juliet and I aren't too fond of wolves, obviously, but as long as they're kept in line, they aren't so bad. Are they?"  
   
Whiskey eyed her; this sudden change in Kilo's demeanor was a bit unnerving. "Yeah," she said slowly, unsure. "Yeah, they're not bad." Then, because the conversation was making her unusually uncomfortable, she said, "So how much longer until we reach Tucson do you reckon?"  
   
"Patience, patience," Kilo said. Light reflected off the chain her gun was attached to, sharp and blinding. "We've only been on the road for a little more than a week now. Usually that'd be long enough to get us to Arizona, but since we're moving in a group, we've got to keep a low profile. Juliet and I decided it'd be best to take the long way around. We probably won't be in Arizona for another week or so. You'll just have to wait."  
   
"I'm getting tired of waiting."  
   
Kilo flashed her a smile that showed too much teeth and looked insincere. "Don't worry, Whiskey. We'll get there. And then you can rescue your princess. Or avenge her. Or whatever it is you're trying to do." Her smile had worked its way into a grin that annoyed Whiskey. "Does November know you're so keen on this girl, Caroline? Or does she not mind sharing?"  
   
It was Whiskey's turn to be angry. Stepping forward, she pushed Kilo up against the wall, one hand on her throat. "You have no idea what you're talking about," she growled, tightening her grip some. "So I suggest you keep your comments to yourself."  
   
Kilo's expression never changed. She didn't even flinch. "Touched a nerve then, I guess," she shot back, breathlessly. "Are you that protective of her? It's more than I expected."  
   
Whiskey tightened her grip just a bit more; Kilo started to struggle, losing her composure. "Shut up. And if you say anything to November, I fucking _swear_ \-- "  
   
"Swear _what_?" Kilo's hands were on hers, trying to pry Whiskey's fingers away from her throat. "What would you do to me, Whiskey? You fucking need me and you know it. And there's no way in hell Juliet would even _think_ about helping you if something happened to me. We're not scared of the wolves; we're not afraid to cross Bennett if we must."  
   
"Bitch," Whiskey grunted, but relented anyway, releasing her grip. Kilo sagged against the wall, letting out a small cough and rubbing at her neck; when she straightened up, Whiskey could see the bright pink marks from where her fingers had been slowly closing around Kilo's throat. November would be angry with her if she found out about their minor altercation, Whiskey knew.  
   
(It wasn't that November was a pussy, she just didn't like Whiskey pissing people off.)  
   
Kilo squared her shoulders, trying to stare Whiskey down. "So, then. Is that what it'll be? You keep my secrets and I keep yours?"  
   
Whiskey brushed herself off. In the distance, she could hear Victor and November talking and laughing about something. She didn't want to be having this discussion; it was incredibly idiotic, as far as she was concerned. She didn't give a fuck about Kilo and Juliet's . . . _whatever_ they had, and she didn't really care either what Kilo may have thought about her and Caroline. She just wanted Kilo to stay away from November, because odds were, she was going to say something that shouldn't be said.  
   
She sighed, ran a hand through her still-damp hair, trying to untangle it. "If that's what you want -- "  
   
"We'll be in Tucson soon enough," Kilo said, turning to leave, already sounding bored. "We'll see what happens then."

;;

   
Near the border between Colorado and Arizona the summer heat got to be so bad that they had to stop and rest during midday, when the sun was at its highest. They took shelter in an old motel, which only had one room that wasn't in complete disarray; long, jagged rips along the wallpaper, floor, and furniture, proof that wolves had been there before them. All six of them cramped together in the room furthest away from the road, cars parked behind the building, passing around cigarettes and water between the lot of them.  
   
Whiskey's shirt was sticking to her back uncomfortably. She tugged at it, wiping at her brow with her free hand, pushing her hair back from her face. November had her head on Whiskey's shoulder. She'd folded up a map she'd found in the motel's main office and was using it to fan them both; unfortunately, it wasn't doing much more than more the air around.  
   
Kilo and Juliet sat by the window in high backed chairs, guns on their laps, sharing a water canteen between them. Victor lay sprawled out on one of the beds, every now and then coughing on the dust. Sierra shifted restlessly beside him, irritated from the heat and having to fight the wolf that was attempting to claw its way out of her. It was getting easier to control it, she'd told Whiskey, when they were packing up the car the previous night, but it was still difficult.  
   
"Sometimes I'm afraid that it'll just happen one day," Sierra'd said, handing Whiskey her sleeping bag. "You know? That I'll just lose control completely."  
   
Whiskey had shaken her head. "It won't happen," she reassured Sierra. "You said yourself that it was getting easier. It's just a matter of time and patience. You forget that most wolves have had months, if not years, of practice to control their transformations. You're doing fine."  
   
Sierra had smiled and agreed, but it hadn't sounded sincere. Whiskey only hoped her fears were unfounded.  
   
"You know, I've been wondering," November said, after about an hour of mostly silence. "About Bennett. You know that arm of hers, the one she keeps in a sling attached to her side? What's that about?"  
   
Whiskey stretched, having become stiff. "It's a dead arm, obviously. But if you mean how she got it, it's a fairly simple explanation: Caroline. She was one of those big animal rights activists, right? One evening she decided she was going to do some damage to the Rossum building on campus, since they'd been accused of animal testing time and time again. She wanted to send them a message, you know, a warning. She managed to drag Bennett along with her -- I'm not really sure how it happened, because I was away that evening. But Bennett was never really good about saying no to Caroline -- neither was I, for that matter. Had I been there, I probably would have gone with Caroline too."  
   
November handed her the canteen. Whiskey took a drink.  
   
"Anyway, I'm not exactly sure what Caroline had planned on doing, but she managed to blow up the wing that they were in at the time. Bennett got her arm crushed when the ceiling fell in on them and was trapped; Caroline just left her there for when all the school authorities and everyone arrived on scene. Skipped right out of town, actually, and we haven't heard from her since. Well, not until now, anyway. And, understandably, Bennett's still harboring a grudge against her. That's why she wants us to find Caroline, you know," Whiskey added, after a moment, gulping down some more water. "She wants revenge."  
   
Kilo cracked her knuckles, flexing her fingers out in front of her. "Yeah? What is she planning to do when we get to Caroline anyway?"  
   
Whiskey shrugged. "I don't know and I don't _want_ to know."  
   
"But I thought you cared about her," November said, looking up at Whiskey through her bangs. "I thought this whole thing was about helping Caroline, not hurting her."  
   
"I don't want to hurt her," Whiskey said, stroking November's hair absentmindedly. "I would never want this. And I _do_ care about her, but what she did to Bennett -- well, I told Bennett I'd help her _find_ Caroline. That's it. Anything else she can do on her own. But what I'm more concerned about now is finding out what Caroline's gotten herself into."  
   
"And do you -- " November started, but was cut off when Sierra sprang up from the bed, staring out the window, eyes narrowed.  
   
"Did you just hear that?" she asked, voice low.  
   
"What?" Juliet asked, standing and peering out the window. "I didn't hear anything. And there's nothing out there."  
   
"I _know_ I heard something," Sierra said. "I don't know what, but there's _something_ out there. I can just feel it -- I don't know if it's wolves or what, but we're definitely not alone."  
   
Whiskey pushed herself to her feet, pulling out her Colt and spinning the barrel before snapping it back into place. "Well then, why don't we go take a look? If it's nothing, it's nothing. Better to be safe than sorry. I don't really want to fall asleep and have wolves come attack us in the night. Do you?" she asked, looking pointedly at Kilo who was scowling her seat.  
   
"Fine," Kilo said, finally standing as well. "We'll go take a look."  
   
November grabbed Whiskey's elbow as she nudged the door open, glancing around outside.

"Hey," she said, eyes wide, .9mm in hand. She'd left her jacket on the floor. "Be careful Whiskey. Remember that we're close to Tucson; the wolves are probably stronger here. We don't know what to expect."  
   
"Relax, kid," Whiskey said, bending down to kiss her on the forehead. "I know what I'm doing."  
   
They made their way outside, Whiskey at the front. Dry, dusty land stretched out all around them. The air was thick and hot without even the slightest sign of a breeze. The late afternoon sun bore down on them; Whiskey felt a trickle of sweat roll down her face. Fuck it. Of all the places and times for them to be attacked by wolves -- if it even _was_ wolves, she was getting ahead of herself -- why did it have to be here? And why suddenly now?  
   
Her thoughts strayed to the last meeting with Bennett. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that they'd be attacked by wolves here, so close to Tucson. November was right in wanting to be cautious. Juliet had said that the area was heavily guarded. Maybe this was border patrol, a way to discourage purebreds and wolves alike from even coming this close.  
   
"I don't see anyone," Victor said, standing near Sierra, a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder. "Are you certain you heard something, Priya?"  
   
"Tony." Sierra's tone was edging on anger. "Out of the whole group, I'm the one with the heightened senses. I know I heard something. I _felt_ something too. I can't -- "  
   
There was a loud _pop_.  
   
Whiskey whirled around to see Kilo gripping her Glock with both hands, aiming at something off in the distance. Juliet had her rifle at the ready too, held up to her shoulder. There was silence, the air thick with tension. No one moved. Whiskey was just about to ask what they'd seen when suddenly there came a low, long howl.  
   
Wolves. And close, too. No more than a a hundred or so meters away. They must have been hiding in the small patch of dense forest fanning out from behind the motel. Whiskey tensed, waiting for them to show themselves. There was another howl then, with a higher pitch than the last one. The wolves were watching them. Talking. There was no way the wolves were going to attack them outright; they were trying to rattle Whiskey and the others into making the first move.  
   
And when they did --  
   
"Don't. Move." Whiskey said through gritted teeth, gripping her Colt tightly as November made to step forward. "We'll fucking make them come to _us_."  
   
"And what if they don't . . . ?" Juliet was tensed, ready. "We can't just keep playing on the defensive, Whiskey."  
   
"Well, you know what they say -- "  
   
She was interrupted promptly by another long, low howl, and then a lone wolf came bounding out of the woods where the pack was hiding, pink tongue hanging out of its mouth, ears forward, as it paced perpendicularly to them. It was one of the biggest wolves Whiskey had ever seen, with thick, slate gray fur and wide, golden eyes; she instinctively took a step back at the sight of it, gripping her Colt that much tighter. The wolf seemed to be sizing them up; a moment later it gave a short bark, and in an instant, another wolf was out of the woods, joining the first one, nuzzling up against it before turning to Whiskey and the others, staring them down.  
   
There had to be at least seven or eight of them, Whiskey thought, keeping her gun level, ready to spring for her knife if need be. There had to be at least a few more wolves in hiding, otherwise they wouldn’t have let two of their number come forward for the challenge.  They were working for intimidation; Whiskey and the others had them outnumbered, but the wolves’ strength more than made up for that disadvantage. That, and their size. These must have been the genetically altered wolves that Bennett had told her about; there was no possibility that they could be natural -- or however natural wolves _could_ be.  
   
"Easy," Whiskey murmured to November, as the wolves circled them slowly.  
   
"How long are you going to wait, Claire?" November whispered furiously, glancing over at Whiskey for a second.  
   
"They're just getting a look at us. If we start in on them now, they're just going to call out the rest of the pack and we'll be too preoccupied with the first wave of attack to watch for the second."  
   
"Oh, fuck this," Kilo spoke up suddenly, aiming her Glock and firing two shots at the big gray wolf. The first shot missed him completely, but the second bullet buried itself deep in his front leg, a bit below the shoulder. It yelped in pain and a moment later the rest of the pack came stalking out into the open, ears back, teeth bared.  
   
Whiskey couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Oh, brilliant," she said, eyes on the giant black wolf in the back of the group. It had a patch of white fur right between its eyes, shocking in contrast. The sun shone off its coat, making it look almost a silvery-purple color. It lagged behind while the other wolves moved forward, snapping and barking at the group of purebreds.  
   
"Come on, Whiskey," Kilo said, firing off another shot, missing one of the smaller wolves with tan fur by mere centimeters. "Don't act like it's not more fun to be on the offensive."  
   
"Not when we don't know what to expect it isn't, no," Whiskey growled.  
   
She fired off a round of silver bullets and managed to kill one of the wolves with it; a tawny one with white paws. The wolf fell to the ground, the wound between its eyes oozing blood and silver. She watched just long enough to see the beginning of the de-transformation, then turned back to where November was fighting with a brown wolf. She'd managed to hurt it -- Whiskey could see the wound on its side, the fur matted with blood -- but it didn't even seem to be bothered by its injury. It kept lunging for her, teeth and claws flashing, and each time November managed to jump away in time. She kept trying to shoot the wolf, but couldn't succeed in hitting her target.  
   
Whiskey aimed and shot; she only managed to skim off a bit of skin on the wolf's ear, but it was enough to distract it. November jumped on the opportunity, kicking the wolf back a few feet and emptying her round into it. It staggered forward a couple steps and then fell, collapsing to the dirt. Whiskey strode over and shot at it one last time, in the heart, just to be certain it was dead.  
   
"Two down," November said, reaching into her back pockets for more ammo, quickly unloading and reloading her gun. "How many're left?"  
   
"Five. No, six. I forgot about the big one. Is he still there?"  
   
The black wolf sat at the edge of the forest, almost patiently, Whiskey thought. Like it was just waiting for the fight to get more interesting before it joined in. Or maybe it wasn't time for it to fight yet. Whiskey didn't spend too long thinking about it; she gave November a shove over towards where Victor and Sierra were working to take down one of the smaller wolves.  
   
"Go. Help them."  
   
November nodded and ran over, a bit of blood splattered on her face from her previous kill.  
   
Whiskey looked around for Kilo and Juliet; each of them was engaged fighting their own wolf. Juliet seemed to be having the harder time with hers; Whiskey hurried over, taking aim and shooting at the wolf as Juliet took a step back, needing to reload. She missed her shot and the wolf turned towards her, Juliet momentarily forgotten about.  
   
The wolf lunged at her and Whiskey moved forward as well, knife in hand. She slashed half-hazardly at it, catching it on its stomach and managing to wound it a little. They tumbled away on the ground, in different directions. Whiskey clambered to her feet, the wolf instantly upon her. It made to lunge at her again, but there was a loud _pop_ on Whiskey's left and the wolf crumpled in on itself, yelling in pain.  
   
Juliet was beside her in an instant, taking another shot at the wolf, this time killing it.  
   
"You all right?" she asked, panting.  
   
"Fine. What about -- ?"  
   
"Just scratched me a bit, that's all." Juliet turned, revealing her torn shirt and five long, red gashes, the material stuck to her skin with blood. "It's okay; it's only the bites that deliver the disease. I'll be fine. I -- "  
   
There was a sound of gun being fired, followed by a bright _ping_ -ing noise, and then Whiskey was acutely aware of pain shooting up and down her left arm, bright and blinding. She looked down; she was bleeding. She could feel the trickle of blood down her arm, thick and wet, and she grunted, turning to where the shot had come from.  
   
Kilo was pinned to the ground by one of the bigger wolves. Gun in hand, she was firing randomly, trying to get the wolf off of her. In the back of her mind, Whiskey realized that one of the bullets had probably ricocheted off something and struck her. Fuck. She tried to ignore the pain in her arm, wincing as she picked up her knife from the ground, having dropped it when she'd been shot.

"Fuck," Juliet said, running over to where Kilo was, running and reloading her rile at the same time. Whiskey kept watching long enough to see her pause and fire, hitting the wolf in the mouth; Kilo kicked it up and off of her, scrambling to her feet, face slick with the wolf's blood.  
   
There was more gunfire to the right of her, and Whiskey turned to see Sierra and November engaged with fighting a smaller wolf with a silver coat. Victor was on the ground, eyes closed, a small gash over one eye. November's shirt was ripped and there were bright red cuts on her hip and shoulders from where she'd been slashed by the wolf's claws. Sierra looked unharmed, except for a small cut on her cheek. The wolf kept jumping back and forth, dodging in and out between the two of them, obviously trying to wear November and Sierra out. And it looked like it was working.  
   
Sierra and November were almost back to back by the time Whiskey got over to where they were, their guns up, the wolf pacing around them slowly.  
   
"Fucking kill it already," November panted, eyes narrowed. She kept glancing over her shoulder, to where the wolf was, moving in front of Sierra, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Whiskey wondered why November didn't just turn and kill the wolf herself, and then she saw the black wolf: it'd moved in several yards closer and looked poised to move in for an attack.  
   
"I'm _trying_ ," Sierra shot back, keeping Victor's sawed-off shotgun level with her shoulder. She pulled the trigger and fired two bullets at the wolf, the wolf dodged the first shot and the second went wide by about five feet.  
   
The wolf crouched and sprang forward; Whiskey jumped and smashed into it in mid-air, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Sierra gave a shout, surprised. Whiskey pushed herself to her feet with a wince, as November shot at the wolf, hitting it in its hindquarters. It reared back with a surprised yelp, giving Whiskey an opening to lunge forward, plunging her knife into the wolf's neck up to the hilt. The wolf gave a howl of pain and twisted, trying to shake Whiskey off; Whiskey was thrown back a few feet, knife still in the wolf.  
   
"November!" she yelled, grunting as she landed on her bad arm; she grit her teeth as pain flashed up and down her side.  
   
November didn't need to be told what to do; two steps forward and she was in front of the wolf. Three shots later and it was dead, slumping down onto a heap in the dirt and gravel, blood and silver mixing in a pool beneath its head. Whiskey got to her knees, gritting her teeth to ignore the pain, as Sierra ran forward, firing off a round at some place behind Whiskey.  
   
She turned to see Sierra chasing the black wolf back into the woods.  
   
There was another shot and Whiskey watched as Kilo and Juliet finished off the wolf they'd been fighting. Juliet gave it a kick to make sure it was actually dead and then sighed, clipping her rifle strap on and slinging it over her back. She had blood splattered on her arms and face and her clothes were dirty and disheveled. To her right, Kilo was wiping her bloody hands off on her jeans, gun already back on the chain around her waist.  
   
November came up, offering her hand to Whiskey, who took it. "Where's Sierra?"  
   
Whiskey jerked her head in the direction of the woods. "She went after the black wolf. What about Victor?"  
   
"Unconscious, but he'll be okay. He accidentally got smacked in the face when Sierra and I were fighting with the wolf. I imagine he'll be awake in a few minutes." November was worrying her bottom lip as she tucked her gun into the waistband of her jeans, behind her back. "You think Sierra'll be okay?"  
   
"She can handle herself," Whiskey said, putting away her knife and holstering her gun. "I'll give her five minutes. If she's not back by then, we can go looking for her. Come on, let's go wake up Victor."  
   
A few shakes later and Victor was awake, squinting up at them, pressing a palm against his temple. "What happened?"  
   
"You got knocked out," Whiskey explained, helping him up. "But you're fine, otherwise."  
   
Victor looked around. "Where's Sierra?"  
   
Whiskey opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly there came a shout from the direction of the woods, and Sierra came trotting out, grinning. Well, speak of the devil, Whiskey thought, and watched as Sierra came up, the sawed-off shotgun slung casually over one shoulder. Her clothes were tattered and soaked with blood, but she didn't appear to be injured. What was more worrying was the blood all around her mouth.  
   
"You all right?" Whiskey asked, as Sierra trotted up, Kilo and Juliet not far behind, exchanging a look Whiskey couldn't read.  
   
"I got him," Sierra grinned, proud. She handed the shotgun back to Victor, who took it with unsteady hands. "I didn't think I'd be able to, but I did."  
   
"You transformed," Kilo said, coming up from behind her, arms crossed. "Wolves are usually too fast for purebreds to chase down on foot, but an altered wolf like that? No pure human would have been able to even keep up, not for more than a hundred feet or so. Only a wolf could do that."  
   
"Only one that had transformed," Juliet added. "Bet you ripped his throat out, too, didn't you? Wolves don't need silvers to kill other wolves."  
   
Sierra looked from Kilo, to Victor, to Whiskey. "Whiskey," she started, self-consciously wiping at her mouth. "You know that I didn't -- well, I _had_ to, and, I thought, maybe -- "  
   
Whiskey waved her hand dismissively, cutting Sierra off. "I don't care. What's done is done. I don't know if it was the best choice of action, given that you still don't fully know how to control the wolf side of you. You could have gotten hurt -- or worse, killed. But in either case, it was for the best. We wouldn't be able to afford any of the pack surviving."  
   
"Whiskey's right," November said, tentatively resting a hand on Sierra's shoulder. "I don't think that wolf was sent here to fight us. Not really, anyway. He was probably just meant to take note of what happened and then go report it his higher up."  
   
"Yeah?" Sierra looked relieved.  
   
Juliet sniffed, picking at the blood that was drying on her nails. "I suppose in this case it was acceptable," she said, after a moment. "But it won't happen again, will it?" She looked past Sierra, meeting Whiskey's eyes.  
   
Whiskey frowned. "No, it won't."  She turned to Victor. "Why don't you and Sierra go round up the bodies? I don't like leaving them all spread out like this. We'll put them in one of the empty rooms."  
   
Victor nodded and reached for Sierra; his arm around her waist, he whispered something in her ear before they headed off to where the furthest body lay, a bullet wound right between the eyes, the girl staring up lifeless at the cloudless sky. Kilo and Juliet headed over to their truck, talking quietly between themselves, Juliet pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail.  
   
Whiskey sighed, walking over to the side of the motel where the angle of the roof provided a bit of shade and relief from the high afternoon sun and heat. November came over, standing up a little on tiptoe to press a single, soft kiss against Whiskey's lips. Whiskey sighed, exhausted, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.  
   
"Hey," November said suddenly. "You're bleeding."  
   
"Oh." Whiskey looked down at her arm, where the bullet had passed through her upper arm. She'd almost entirely forgotten about it; but now that she was thinking about it, the throbbing pain in her arm seemed almost unbearable. There was blood trickling down her arm, painting it a bright crimson color and dripping into the dirt. "Oh, fuck."  
   
November stepped forward, ripping the bottom of her shirt off the rest of the way and tying it around the wound. "Here. To stop the bleeding. We'll have to get it cleaned up before we go, of course, otherwise it'll get infected."  
   
Kilo, a few feet away, said, "You've been shot, Whiskey?"  
   
"It's not bad," Whiskey grunted, wincing as November knotted the bit of cloth about her arm.  
   
"It was your gun that did it," Juliet told Kilo."When you were fighting that wolf. Ricochet."  
   
Kilo grimaced, then offered Whiskey an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Bullet wounds are nasty," she jerked her head in Juliet's direction, who was helping Victor and Sierra move the bodies into a pile near the back of the motel. "She got shot once, in the stomach. It took her almost a full month until she was fully recovered. It's worse with silver bullets, for some reason. It must be the way they're engineered or something."  
   
"It's not bad," Whiskey repeated, shrugging. "I've had worse."  
   
Kilo grinned. "Bet you have."  
   
"Hey, you should come look at this," Victor called to them. He was crouched down over one of the bodies, looking at something on its arm.  
   
"What is it?" Juliet was the first one over.  
   
"This." Victor pulled back the man's sleeve from his wrist revealing the tattoo there, in thick, dark ink. _Romeo_ it read, and beneath it was a symbol that Whiskey instantly recognized: _α_. _Alpha_.  
   
Kilo sucked in her breath.  
   
November said, "Well, that's not very good, is it?"  
   
"There's a name and this symbol on each of the bodies," Victor said. "We checked. This is Romeo, obviously. There's a Foxtrot, Yankee, Tango, Hotel, Bravo, and Mike. I don't know about the eighth wolf. Sierra says she didn't see any markings on him when she -- well, when she killed him."  
   
Sierra shook her head. "I know he was clean. If there had been something on him, I would have noticed it."  
   
"So why would he have no branding on him," Whiskey wondered out loud, nudging the body absentmindedly with her foot, as Victor dropped the arm he was holding. "What would make him special? All of the other wolves have their names and owner on them."  
   
"He was just a man," Sierra shrugged. "Tall, black, short hair. Looked a little old, I think. Not _old_ , really, but more like, well, older than most of the wolves we've fought so far. _Definitely_ older than the rest of these wolves here," she amended, gesturing towards the bodies.  
   
Whiskey frowned. "He must have been closer to them than the rest. Closer to Alpha and Car -- Omega. That's why he was sent to take notes and not fight."  
   
November shoved her hands in her pockets. "So?"  
   
"So it means they'll be on the look out for him," Victor said, straightening up, his face hard. "They'll notice when he doesn't come back; they'll know something's up. And it might mean that they'll know we're here."  
   
"You're all fucking paranoid," Kilo scoffed, sharing a smirk with Juliet. "You actually think they're going to know that we're here? A bit presumptuous much, don't you think? I can understand Alpha and Omega maybe thinking that Juliet and me had something to do with this, since we're actually known in these parts. But, what, you think they're going to know about _you_? A ragtag team of wolf hunters from back east?"  
   
"Oh, she'll know," Whiskey said, fumbling around in her pocket for matches, eager for a smoke. "Do you think it was coincidence that we ran into wolves _here_? Factoring out how close we are to Tucson and thus, Rossum, this place is out in the middle of fucking nowhere. Way off the beaten path. They had to have been looking for us."  
   
"But why? And _how_? How would they have even known that we were coming to Tucson? No one knew that."  
   
"Except Bennett," November said slowly, in a soft voice. "She knew."  
   
"And Ivy and Adelle both knew we were headed out west," Whiskey snapped, glaring at her. "And Jack, too, probably, seeing as he's the one who fed us the information about the trouble out here in the first place. For all we know, in our absence Glen River's become wolf-infested. Any of them could have tipped Rossum and the others off about us. It wouldn't take a genius to put two and two together and figure things out."  
   
November didn't look convinced. Neither did Juliet and Kilo.  
   
Victor said, "But why would Bennett have betrayed us in the first place? She isn't -- well, she wanted us to succeed, didn't she? I mean, she wanted us to be able to get to Tucson. That's why she gave us them," he glanced at Kilo and Juliet, "in the first place. To help us."  
   
"She's not a bad wolf," Sierra added.  
   
"No such thing as a good wolf," Kilo muttered.  
   
An instant later, Sierra was upon her, fists flying. Kilo gave a sharp cry of surprise as she was tackled to the ground, kicking up and in with her knee, trying to throw Sierra off of her, as Sierra's fist connected with Kilo's face, sending a fine spray of blood flying. Victor and Juliet jumped in a moment later, before Sierra could land another punch; the four of them shouted and scrambled and fought on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.  
   
It was a fucking mess. Whiskey rolled her eyes and stepped forward, grabbing Juliet by the back of her coat and pulling her away from the fight, throwing her back a few feet. November had her arms around Victor and was trying to pull him off Kilo, who was cursing a blue streak, fresh blood all over her face.  
   
"Come on, _stop_ ," Whiskey yelled, helping November with Victor and moving in to grab Kilo. "You're fucking acting like goddamn _children_."  
   
" _She_ started it," Sierra whined, scrambling up onto her feet and jabbing a finger accusingly in Kilo's direction. "Fucking arrogant, self-centered cu -- "  
   
Whiskey shoved Sierra roughly, to shut her up. "I don't really _give_ a fuck," she growled, angry now. "We just found out that we're being targeted _specifically_ by the goddamn strongest, most dangerous wolves there are, and you all want to sit and bicker about who called who names. Fucking grow up."  
   
Sierra glowered at Whiskey, but said nothing. Victor pulled her to him and whispered something in her ear, then pressed a kiss to her temple, his arm around her shoulders.  
   
Kilo preoccupied herself with cleaning the blood off of her face, gingerly touching her nose, cursing under her breath with Juliet stepped over to examine it, holding it between two fingers and snapped it back into place with a sickening _crack_.  
   
"You all right?" Whiskey murmured, stepping in towards November.  
   
"Fine. Victor's elbow caught me right here," she grinned and pointed to her forehead, just above her right eye. "It's just a little cut, though. Doesn't hurt."  
   
Whiskey gave her a faint smile and reached out to ruffle her hair. November laughed and gave her a playful push, before standing on tiptoe to press a quick, light kiss to the bridge of Whiskey's nose.

;;

   
After their encounter with the wolves, Whiskey was more determined than ever to reach Rossum headquarters and finally get to the bottom of things. Especially since it seemed as though they were being monitored; all the better then, she figured, to move as quickly as possible. Hopefully their killing of the surveillance wolf pack had bought them some time. At the very least, it would take Omega and Alpha and whoever else was in charge at least a day before they realized that anything was gone. And, Whiskey thought, they could make decent time in those few, precious hours.  
   
Thankfully, the wolf fight, as well as the resulting group scuffle, seemed to have calmed everyone's nerves and, for once, tempers weren't running high. Everyone seemed to be more focused now than ever on achieving their goal; Whiskey breathed an internal sigh of relief at this. The last thing they needed right now was for everyone to be at each other's throats.  
   
"You know, there's no telling what we might find when we finally _do_ reach Tucson," November sighed a few nights later, sprawled out in bed, the sheets bunched up around her waist.  
   
Whiskey, from where she was sitting near the window smoking, said, "Does it matter?"  
   
November shrugged. "Not to me. But if Om -- Caroline -- isn't in Tucson . . . "  
   
"She _will_ be."  
   
"Well. Maybe." November said, stretching with a yawn. "Maybe not."  
   
Whiskey exhaled two thin streams of bluish smoke through her nose. "If she's not there, then . . . Well, I don't know what we'll do. Keep looking for her, probably. Even if she's not in Tucson, there's at least got to be someone there who _does_ know where she is. She's got to be at least in the area. I can't imagine she'd stray far from Rossum headquarters."  
   
"And you know this because?"  
   
"Because Caroline's predictable," Whiskey grinned, flicking the stub of her cigarette out the window. "Whatever this thing is she's got going on, she won't stop until she's finished what she's started. And judging by the wolves she sent to welcome us the other day, she isn't finished. She wouldn't up and leave just yet."  
   
"Mmm." November reclined back against the pillows, grinning faintly. "You know her too well."  
   
" _Used_ to, you mean."  
   
"Either way. Enough to make someone jealous."  
   
Whiskey laughed. "What, really? I didn't think you'd be like that, Maddie."  
   
November's grin widened, showing a bit of teeth. "There's a lot you don't know about me," she said. "Now, really, come on. Let's hope we can find Caroline in Tucson. I, for one, am tired of the chase. Not like I want to be jumping straight into a battle, but," she trailed off with another sigh.  
   
"I know, I know," Whiskey said, climbing out of her chair and striding across the room and joining November on the bed. "It's been almost, what, a year already? I'm tired too. But we're almost there."  
   
November turned, staring up at Whiskey with bright, hazel eyes. "You know, Claire, nothing we find in Tucson will be good."  
   
Whiskey knew.  
   
She leaned down, kissing November once. November smiled into the kiss, loping an arm lazily around Whiskey's waist and pulling her in closer. Whiskey didn't really want to talk about Tucson or Caroline or anything else right now; her mind was hazy with exhaustion and sex. This was the first time she'd gotten a chance to properly relax in days. Since the wolf fight three days ago, they'd barely even stopped for a moment's rest. But now, with Tucson only a three hour's drive away, they'd taken shelter in a house they'd found at the edge of a tiny little town called Northgate.  
   
For the first time in a long time, neither she nor November had guard duty that evening. They'd decided that since Whiskey and Kilo did the majority of the driving during the day, it would only be fair to allow them a full night's rest. Victor and Sierra volunteered for the first and second shifts, respectively, and Juliet said she would take the last one, which left November with nothing to do.  
   
She'd tugged Whiskey into the bedroom shortly after dinner, right when Victor was readying to go outside for his guard shift. They'd made love hastily, barely even bothering to undress, as Whiskey pressed November to the bed with a rough kiss, hands at her belt, loosening her trousers.  
   
Now November lay naked under the sheets, curled up against Whiskey, who wore only her underwear and a thin undershirt. Even though it was February, it was still exceedingly warm in Arizona; Whiskey felt her clothes clinging to her with a light sweat.  
   
"I just don't want you to be disappointed, that's all," November was saying, as her fingers stroked lazy crisscrosses along Whiskey's upper thigh. "You know, if we don't what find we want to in Tucson."  
   
"What do we want to find?" Whiskey rolled onto her back, stretching, kicking the sheets away some.  
   
November gave a slight shrug. "Dunno. Answers, I guess. I haven't really thought about it that much, to be honest."  
   
"Well, that's unusual," Whiskey chuckled, playing with a strand of November's hair. "You always tend to think too _much_."  
   
"First time for everything," November told her, shifting until she was on top of Whiskey, straddling her. The sheets slipped down, bunching around her waist. She took Whiskey's hands in her own; bringing them to her face, she kissed each palm once, softly, and then with a grin, slid them further down her body, pushing into them.  
   
They didn't bother to discuss Tucson or Omega or anything else for the rest of the evening.

;;

   
The Rossum building was smaller than Whiskey anticipated it to be.

It was also less populated than Whiskey thought it would be, and as they rolled along into the back parking lot, Whiskey was surprised to find a lack of any security measures. There were no guards, no alarms. Not even a front gate. Just a simple chain link fence surrounding the perimeter of the area. For a place that was meant to be so important, it didn't look it.

"Well, this is cozy, isn't it," Kilo drawled, jumping out of her truck and stuffing her hands into her pockets.

There were no other cars in the parking lot aside from the Impala and Kilo's truck, something that instantly made Whiskey suspicious. Surely people must have been working here? And recently, too, otherwise Bennett wouldn't have even bothered to send them down here on an errand to begin with. So where was everyone?

It was a concern that Victor voiced, climbing out of the back of the Impala, shotgun slung over one shoulder. "What, no welcoming committee?"

"Looks that way." Whiskey shielded her eyes from the sun, peering at the back entrance of the building. "Don't let your guard down, though. Might be a surprise party we're walking into."

"I don't sense the presence any other wolves," Sierra said, as they made their way to the entrance. "I mean, last time, I could smell them. Hear them. And aside from that, I just _knew_ when there were other wolves around. I think it's one of the conditions of the disease. You know, like, knowing when you're near someone else who's been infected."

"Still," Juliet said, as Whiskey pulled open the heavy glass door and they all carefully stepped inside. She removed her rifle from it's holster, cocking it. "Who knows what sort of tricks Rossum has worked into this place."

The first floor was deserted. They did a quick sweep of all of the rooms, but there wasn't anyone -- or any _thing_ \-- around. There wasn't anything to suggest that anything bad had happened to the Rossum employees; everything was neat and orderly and in its place. It simply looked as though everyone had just picked up and left with the idea that they'd soon be returning. It was unnerving to see the place like that, so silent and still. At least if it had been ransacked, Whiskey thought, she wouldn't have such an overwhelming feeling of dread.

At least they'd have an idea of what had happened.

Sweeps of the second and third floors yielded the same results. And then, when they were in the stairwell heading up to the fourth floor, Sierra suddenly stopped, as if frozen in place, eyes wide.

"Wolves," she said simply, in a low voice. She gestured up towards the door to the fourth floor. "Through there. Don't know how many -- not too many, I don't think. They're being quiet. I don't know if they know we're here or not." She took a step forward, sniffing the air once, twice. "Females, mostly. Young-ish. They should be easy to take out."

Whiskey didn't need to hear more; there was no need for caution. Not here, anyway. Throwing a look in November's direction, she sprinted up the steps, kicking open the door, gun out. November was a step behind her, but she fired first, shooting at a brown-gold wolf that was barrelling down the hallway. The wolf dropped on the second shot, tumbling to the ground. The wolf behind it didn't miss a beat; jumping over its fallen comrade and landing a few feet in front of Whiskey, snarling.

Whiskey didn't even blink, firing three shots into it, killing it before it even had the chance to attack.

There was a loud _pop_ next to her ear, and she turned to see Kilo striding over to a wolf that lay squirming on the floor, blood and silver spilling out of a wound in its hindquarters, coating its fur a sticky crimson color. Kilo pulled the trigger twice more and with a tiny whimper, the wolf finally stopped moving, falling back limp to the floor.

"Well, that was easier than expected," Victor said, surprised, as he and Sierra and Juliet filed through the door behind them.

"You were right, Sierra," Whiskey said, stepping over one of the wolves and continuing down the hall. "Three girls, and they weren't experienced at all. Came right at us, right out in the open. They must have just been turned recently."

"No tattoos," November noted, squatting down and examining their wrists. "Interesting."

"Maybe they just weren't part of Alpha's group," Whiskey suggested with a shrug, putting her gun away and wiping her hands onto her shirt. Dusty with gunpowder and wet with little spatters of blood, they left black and scarlet streaks on the material, bright in contract to its worn, sun-bleached light blue.

The floor was empty as well. Whiskey frowned when they finished with their search, wishing she hadn't left her cigarettes in the car. She was fucking dying for a smoke right now, especially with her nerves all shot to pieces. She chewed on the inside of her lip, as Victor and November did a second, quicker sweep of the floor. Still nothing. And yet the wolves had been here, ready to attack in the event of intruders. The oddity of this place was doing her head in.

Fuck Rossum, she thought, as they climbed the stairs to the fifth and final floor, toying with the clasp on her holster, buttoning and unbuttoning it; each time it made a loud _snap_ that on all other days would have easily annoyed the crap out of her. Now, it was a welcome distraction.

"No wolves here," Sierra informed them and Kilo kicked the door open a moment later.

All of the doors on both ends of the hallway were open, except for the last door down the far right. Whiskey put her finger to her lips and gave a slight nod, beckoning for the others to follow her. Surely there had to be someone beyond wherever the door lead. Pausing outside, she noticed a slight, low humming sound, coming from the room in front of them. She knew she'd heard the sound before, but she just couldn't place it.

The doorknob was hot as she turned it. Slowly, to avoid the clicking sound of it opening.

They burst through the door, all guns raised and ready.

"Hey, hey, don't shoot!" A voice called out from the back of the room. A man stepped out from behind a row of computers, clicking on more of the lights as he did so. His hands, held palms up, at his shoulders, had a slight shake to them. He was a wiry man with light, sandy colored hair, with a floppy fringe that fell into his eyes.

In the new light, Whiskey could see that the room was larger than expected. One half was a laboratory, with books and notes scattered about the tables and counter tops, a small Bunsen burner heating up a dark, green-blue solution in the back, under a gas hood. The other half of the room was stocked with half a dozen computers, all connected to three large flat-screen monitors near the back.

"Don't shoot!" The man said again, when Whiskey and the others didn't lower their guns. "I'm not armed, I promise. And I'm not a wolf! I'm completely defenseless."

"He's right," Sierra murmured, from behind Whiskey. "He's definitely not a wolf."

Whiskey strode forward, stopping within a few feet from the man, her gun pointed straight at his heart. "Who are you?"

"Topher. Topher Brink."

"What are you doing here?"

"I . . . work here?" Topher flashed them a weak, nervous smile. "I'm the head of Rossum's Research and Development Center. I do a lot of the computational side of things you see," he went on, babbling, "like, um, analyzing the data inputs we get from our lab tests and determining possible output scenarios in regards to different types and styles of environments. Technically I guess I could be referred to as a programmer -- well, lead programmer, because like I said, I'm the head of this department -- and -- "

"Enough," Whiskey said sharply, cutting him off. "So you work here. Where's everyone else?"

"Gone," Topher said simply, lowering his hands. "Not gone for good, I mean, just away. This Rossum building is being used for special, specific tests right now, so all of the regular employees have been moved to another building in New Phoenix." He swallowed. "I'm really the only one here, aside from a few wolves."

"Well, they're dead now," Kilo said, from the back. "So it's just you now. And us."

Topher looked unwell. "Right. Um."

Whiskey sniffed and lowered her gun, motioning for Victor to come and stand in her place, his shotgun aimed and ready, should Topher attempt to try anything. Not that Whiskey thought he would; he didn't look at all like the fighting type and, from what she could tell, there were no weapons about the room that he could use.

The images on the giant flat-screen monitors caught her eye and she walked over, examining them. There were 3D models of brain imagery scans, with certain sections of the brain highlighted in thick, red lines. Whiskey recognized the regions as the Hippocampus and Cerebral Cortex. The areas of the brain that controlled impulse and long-term memory, as well as impulse control.

"What's this about?" she asked, gesturing towards the screens.

"Research. About wolves," Topher clarified after a moment, sounding almost pleased that Whiskey asked. "We're looking at the effects of wolf transformation, specifically how it can be controlled after a period of training. You see, after being infected, your body begins to react to the moon due to a new wave of impulse memory implanted in your brain. Purebreds don't have that; there's no hidden desire worked into them that tells their muscles and body to transform. But, for some reason, any small amount of training can negate that new muscle memory. What's interesting is that not only the Hippocampus reacts to one's desire not to transform, but so does the Cerebral Cortex, which of course has to do with impulse control. See, there's -- "

Whiskey raised her hand, cutting him off again. He seemed to have a tendency to ramble, which was more than a little annoying. "Well, you seem to be the expert here, then. What do you know about the new wolves, the ones who are rumored to be genetically altered?"

Topher shrugged. "There isn't much to tell, I don't think, and you've probably heard most of it already -- and I'm guessing you have, otherwise you wouldn't have asked. The altered wolves have simply been infected with new strains of the virus, ones that were perfected in labs _after_ the initial leak. They're similar to the original wolves, with a few slight alterations. Size, strength, endurance. The typical sort of things."

Whiskey turned back to the screen, watching the digital brain spin slowly around in a circle, allowing a full view of the cerebrum and regions being investigated. She felt a sudden twinge of nostalgia at that, remembering when she first learned it, lying on her dorm room bed with her biology book propped open in front of her, Caroline and Bennett only a few feet away studying as well.

"Rossum made the werewolf virus, then, didn't they," she said, after a short while. "There's no other way they could have gotten their hands on the virus blueprints if they hadn't. And without blueprints, they wouldn't have been able to do all of this testing and modifying."  
   
"Oh, well, the virus was just a decoy," Topher jumped in, fingers on his right hand moving; a nervous tick. "A trick. Like a magician; you need to distract the audience from the real target. Of course Rossum leaked the virus -- they only ever created it _for_ the purpose of it being leaked."  
   
"So it wasn't an accident?" Whiskey frowned, surprised. "Then why -- ?"  
   
"Like I was saying. They needed to distract everyone from their true purpose."  
   
"The genetic wolves." Kilo's tone was hard, full of angry realization. "They needed to test the virus on the masses, first, didn't they? Just to see how it worked. And from there it was all a matter of perfecting it."  
   
Topher nodded. "Rossum never wanted anything more than to do a trial run with the werewolf disease. It gave them time to make perfect versions of the virus."  
   
"But, why?" Victor asked, from the back, confused. "Why bother to do all that? Why not do a test run on a small batch of people? Why leak it out and infect the entire world?"  
   
A heavy, unsure silence settled over the group.  
   
"I know why," Whiskey said, finally. "It's because they have the cure, don't they?"  
   
"Exactly!" Topher nodded again, more vigorously this time, a pleased smile breaking out across his face. It was a little unnerving. "Yes, exactly. They made the virus, so they would have the cure, right? The virus isn't a single-strand of RNA like most viruses are. Rossum designed it so that it would be highly unlikely to mutate -- factoring out, of course, the probability that it may be mutated in someone's body by pure chance, but, even then, they could isolate that mutation and alter the cure as need be -- so that way, when they _didn't_ want the world to be infected any longer, they could just snap their fingers -- metaphorically, I mean, it wouldn't actually be _that_ easy -- and change all the wolves back to their original, pure human form."  
   
"So if they had the cure, this meant they could both make a fortune selling it _and_ still come out looking like heroes," November concluded grimly. "Since no one would have suspected they'd leaked it on purpose and the whole incident's been blamed on the government. Rossum would be able to turn themselves into the world's saviors."  
   
There was a murmur of agreement throughout the group. Of course, it made sense; Rossum would let the disease carry out its course, and when almost all but a few humans had been wiped out, Rossum would sell the antidote to the highest bidder. Those humans would then seek to cure as many infected as they could -- who in turn would purchase more and more antidotes, as their need to return the world to its all-human state grew.  
   
But something still didn't make sense; it made Whiskey uneasy.  
   
"Why work so hard to make the genetic wolves, then?" she asked Topher, who looked up from the computer he was typing away senselessly at. "That's the part that doesn't add up."  
   
"That I can't help you with," Topher said, looking genuinely apologetic. "All I know was that we had to fix the imperfections in the original virus and then run tests with them. Or trial runs, really. Which -- you mentioned the mass killings in California -- involved in-field testing."  
   
"Bennett said something, too," November said slowly, twisting a strand of auburn hair nervously between her index and middle fingers. "About an L.A. branch. I always thought she was talking about a government branch out there, but that's not right, is it? And with Rossum in Tucson . . . What did she mean?"  
   
Topher licked his lips, fingers twitching once more. "It's -- I don't know what it _is_ exactly," he said excitedly, standing up and pacing the room. "Rossum calls it the Dollhouse. I guess it's one of their corporate branches. But the Dollhouse itself, it's underground. Like, _literally_ underground, not just a secret -- though it is, obviously, underground in the metaphorical sense as well. You know, like a secret. I don't know what purpose it serves, to be honest. It's not really something that gets discussed in your every day conversations."  
   
Whiskey frowned, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. "So wouldn't Bennett have just told us about the Dollhouse in the first place? Why direct us to Rossum instead?"  
   
"I . . . really don't know." Topher held up his hands. "Probably because she -- rightly -- assumed that Omega and Alpha would be here. I mean, they _were_ here. Or rather, are here, usually. They sort of come and go between here and L.A. I don't really know the _why_ , just the _what_. The Dollhouses aren't really _called_ Dollhouses, you know? It's sort of like a codename. It's possible Bennett didn't actually know the name and just thought of it as one of Rossum's research offices, like in D.C."  
   
"So now what we know to look for, it's just as simple as walking into L.A. and finding it, right?" Kilo said, sounding suspicious. "We just look for the Rossum building and that's that? We find Omega and Alpha, problem solved."  
   
Topher shook his head. Then, "Well, I suppose in a way, technically speaking, it _is_ that easy. But I imagine that if Alpha and Omega aren't here, it's because they knew you'd _come_ here. They're probably just waiting for you to find your way to Los Angeles."  
   
"Wonderful," Sierra muttered, beside Whiskey.  
   
So now, Whiskey realized, they knew for certain that Alpha and Omega were on the lookout for them, but they still didn't know what the real purpose of the werewolf virus and subsequent genetic alterations was. But she knew that the answers to those questions were of little importance right now; Omega would be able to provide all of the answers -- once they found, her, that is. Apparently, though, that was a task easier said than done. And, Whiskey imagined, Topher was probably right about that, if the small pack of altered wolves they'd faced on the Arizona border was any indication of what was to come.  
   
"So what do we do?" Victor asked, his rifle still pointed at Topher, though his stance had relaxed some since they'd first arrived. "Now that he's given us all the information he can."  
   
Kilo shrugged. "Kill him."  
   
Juliet nodded sharply in agreement.  
   
"Hey!" Topher shouted nervously, eyes wide. "Hey, no, what did I say? Guns do not help! Look at me," he said, gesturing widely at himself. "I am _not_ a wolf. I was hired by Rossum to help them work on a project -- I, I didn't know what they were really going to do with it! I had no idea at all!"  
   
"That doesn't too much to endear yourself to us," Kilo told him. "It just makes us question your competence."  
   
"Oh, just let him live," November said in an annoyed tone, turning to Whiskey. "Tie him up or something so that he can't leave. Whatever. But there's no sense in killing him. It'd just be a waste of bullets."  
   
Whiskey briefly considered her options. Finally she said, "November's right. As grossly incompetent as Topher here may be," Topher frowned at Whiskey at that, crossing his arms, "I don't really see a reason to kill him. He told us what we wanted to know and we've no reason not to trust him."  
   
Juliet scoffed. "He's been helping the wolves this whole time! We've got _every_ reason not to trust him."  
   
Whiskey sighed and in a flash, whipped out her Colt and pointed it at Topher's face, aiming right between his eyes. "Now. Tell me. Are you being honest?"  
   
"Of course!"  
   
"Good. Second question," she said, cocking her gun, causing Topher to flinch. "If anyone asks about us, what are you going to say?"  
   
Topher swallowed, licking his lips again. "I'll say that you never came here," he said, in slightly higher pitch than normal. "In fact, I don't even know who you are," he said, barking out a short, nervous laugh. "I've never seen you, don't know who you are, why would you even have come here and talked to me in the first place?"  
   
"Right." Whiskey put her gun back in its holster.  
   
"So that's it, then?" Topher asked, with a tiny smile. "I guess you'll just be on your way . . . ?"  
   
Kilo grinned, eyes glinting. "Something like that, yeah."

;;

   
They left Topher tied up in one of the back offices, unconscious from getting knocked on the head with the butt-end of Victor's rifle. Sierra had had some doubts about doing it ("What if no one comes back for him?" she'd asked, anxious) but Whiskey and the others had assured her that he'd be fine. Even Topher had piped up that, yes, of course someone would be back soon, though Whiskey was pretty sure he was only saying that to try and scare them, just in case they decided he'd be better off dead after all.  
   
In most cases, she _would_ have killed him, but now, she didn't care. It didn't matter if he was dead or not; either way, he'd lead her Omega.

Taking advantage of the fresh, running water in the Rossum building, they stopped for a moment before heading out to wash up and refill their canteens. Whiskey made a half-hearted attempt at washing her hair, pumping soap from the dispenser into her hand and scrubbing it in to work up a weak lather. It was better than nothing, though, she thought as she rinsed her hair off in the sink. She hadn't had a real shower in ages.  
   
November cornered her in the back stall just as she was getting dressed again, pressing her against the counter with a kiss.  
   
"You smell nice," she said, with a smile.  
   
"It's called soap," Whiskey said, and November laughed, kissing her again.

It took them a week to travel to Los Angeles, which was longer than Whiskey would have liked, but it couldn't be helped; on the way there they ran into a few roaming packs of wolves which took some time in fully eliminating. It meant that they were getting close to New Los Angeles, which sat only twelve miles away from Old Los Angeles -- the city before the wolf virus outbreak -- but it didn't help that they ended every day exhausted from fighting. Even the nights, sometimes, too were interrupted by the arrival of wolves, who'd sensed the new purebreds from miles away and decided to investigate. Another thing that worried Whiskey was their ammo supply; they hadn't found a new place to get some and no matter how sparingly they used their bullets, their supply was dwindling rapidly.

Which was another strike against them.

When they finally reached the outskirts of L.A., Whiskey found them a fifth floor apartment. The building had fallen into disrepair years ago and the place where they were hiding was only accessible via the elevator shaft. The height and location gave them an advantage should wolves decide to attack them. Even de-transformed, it would take them at least a few minutes to climb up to the fifth floor; it would leave them completely unguarded and easy to kill.

She sent everyone except November out to scourge the area for food, water, and ammunition. "Of course," she reminded everyone, just as they were leaving, "it would be best not to engage in any fights with wolves, if possible. And under _no circumstances_ are you to let any wolves follow you back here."

"Why'd you keep me behind?" November asked, sitting at the dusty kitchen table, feet propped up on the chair in front of her. "You know I could have been more useful out there than in here."

Whiskey shrugged. She was trying to get her lighter to work, cigarette between her teeth. "I like keeping an eye on you," she said at last, exhaling with a sigh, watching the smoke slip through the half-opened window into the street.

November grinned. "And that's it?"

"Well, if you know the real reason, you shouldn't need to ask," Whiskey said, and when November climbed off the chair to press Whiskey against the wall with a sharp, rough kiss, she thought November must have certainly figured it out.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sierra and the others arrived back, lugging behind them three gallons of water but no food, Kilo informed Whiskey that they'd encountered a handful of wolves during their search, but they appeared to be roamers without a pack and nothing more.

"I imagine Alpha and Omega have scared the other packs away," Kilo said, sitting down on the arm of the couch with a sigh, undoing her gloves and shoving them into her pocket. "Which makes things easier for us."

At least something was working in their favor.

Whiskey did a bit of roaming around the apartment building later after dinner and found that the upper floors were in much better shape than the lower floors. It helped, too, that whoever had blocked off and destroyed the stairs in the lower half of the building hadn't bothered to do the same with the upper levels. In the rare event that wolves could creep in through the elevator shaft, at least they'd be able to get to the roof quickly.

It was there that she found herself, leaning on the waist-high cement wall that sat along the roof's perimeter, smoking. The streets were empty, littered with abandoned cars and debris from all of the stores that had been broken into and raided. She smoked until the sun had slipped fully behind the horizon and stars began to decorate the purple-blue night sky. There was the sound of the roof door being opened and the soft crunch of gravel underneath boots.

"What are you doing?" November came up beside her, hands in her jacket pockets.

Whiskey shrugged, inhaling. "Just looking at the stars."

"Victor and Sierra are asleep downstairs," November said. "Kilo and Juliet said they'd sit up together tonight for watch duty. Safety in numbers and all that. Even though there aren't many wolves around, they still think we should err on the side of caution. I agree."

"Mm." Whiskey tapped away a bit of ash. "Me too. You know it's weird," she added, after a moment. "I mean, the stars. You know they're there and you always see them, but you don't really take any notice of them. Not until it matters, anyway.

November gave a non-committal shrug. "That's like a lot of things."

"Yeah." Whiskey's cigarette had almost burned its way down to the filter. "Which is why I want to look at them now."

November gave a small sigh, coming around the back to wrap her arms around Whiskey's waist, her cheek pressed against Whiskey's shoulder. Whiskey flicked the ends of her cigarette off the roof, while the wind picked up, pulling in the faint scent of seawater from the coast.

"It'll be okay," November said, into Whiskey's jacket.

Whiskey grinned wrapping her arm around November's shoulders and stroking the side of her neck. "I hope, so, kid. I certainly hope so."

She felt November's hands move down, and slip beneath the edge of her shirt, tracing the warm skin there. Her fingers were cold; Whiskey shivered and turned in November's arm, cupping her face with one hand and kissing her gently. November's hands slipped under her shirt up her back, drawing small, lazy circles between her shoulder blades.

"Trying to take my mind off it?" Whiskey murmured against November's cheek as her hands slipped down and began undoing November's belt.

November grinned, unclasping her bra. "Yeah. Something like that."

Much later, Whiskey, pressing lazy, light kisses along November's shoulder, asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Tomorrow." November sighed, stroking Whiskey's hair. "And the day after that. Caroline."

"It'll be over soon." Whiskey reached up, closing her fingers around November's hand. She brought it to her mouth, kissing the back of it, her knuckles, her palm. November smelled of soap and smoke. Her skin tasted slightly salty, like sweat. Whiskey threaded their fingers together. It had been so long since they'd last had a real moment's peace to themselves. "We're in L.A., we just need to find the Dollhouse. And then things well be okay."

November didn't seem convinced. Her eyes, wide and dark, searched Whiskey's face. "Will they really be, though? We still don't know what Rossum did with the antidote. Not to mention the refined virus strain. We just think Alpha and Omega have them. We don't _know_."

Whiskey sighed. "No. We don't."

Stretching out, November reached for her pack of Lucky Strike, tugging out a cigarette and grabbing her lighter. She sat up a bit, flicking it on and inhaling deeply. She tossed the lighter aside, took another drag, and handed it over to Whiskey.

November plucked the cigarette from Whiskey's fingers after a moment. "So?"

"So we take care of one thing at a time. Like usual. First we find Omega and Alpha. We worry about the other stuff next."

There was a long pause. November let the cigarette smolder between her fingers. Whiskey's throat was dry from the smoke and dust and thick, humid air of California. All of the water was downstairs though, and she didn't feel like getting up to get some. It was probably best that they conserve the little water they had left, anyway.

She sat up, stretching. Her limbs were stiff.

"I'm just worried, you know," November said, breaking the silence.

Whiskey sniffed, took the cigarette back from her. "Yeah," she said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Yeah. Me too."

 

;;

 

"This is it?" November asked, as they sat in the idling Impala, staring up at building with a large sign in front of it that proclaimed it to be _Rossum Research Development Center of Los Angeles_. "It looks a little . . . Well, I'm a bit underwhelmed, to be honest."

"What were you expecting?" Whiskey asks, turning off the engine and pocketing her keys as she kicked her door open. The others followed her out of the car, Victor and Sierra scrambling out from the backseat. A few feet behind them, Kilo and Juliet jumped out of the truck, Kilo pulling on her leather gloves.

Juliet tossed a pack of ammo each to Victor and Sierra, and then one to November. "You're gonna need these," she said, handing Whiskey a cardboard pack of bullets for the Colt. "We wasted nearly all of our bullets on our last fight against these new wolves -- and that, by all standards, was an easy fight."

"Use the bullets sparingly, if you can," Kilo added beside her, playing with the chain her gun was clipped to. "We don't know how many wolves are in there. Even with the extra ammo, it may not be enough to take them all down."

Whiskey looked at Sierra, who shrugged and held her hands up helplessly.

"I can't sense anything," she said, frowning. "Maybe they have some sort of block set up to prevent people from finding them. I can't even catch a scent, which is odd. Even if there were only a few wolves here I'd have smelled at least something."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure they've got that whole area covered," Victor said, shoving his box of ammo into his back pocket. "If they've been sitting out here as long as we think they have, then they probably worked out a way to keep people from knowing they were here."

"Or maybe it's because they're not regular wolves like Sierra," Whiskey suggested.

"I sensed the ones near Tuscan, though. Why not now?"

"I'm sure we'll find out once we're inside," Kilo sighed, annoyed, pushing her way past Whiskey and making her way towards the main entrance, Juliet tailing a few feet behind. "Let's go before the wolves decide to take a look outside and see that we're here."

"That easy then, is it?" November grumbled under her breath as she tucked her gun in the back of her jeans. She glanced over at Whiskey, rolling her eyes. "We'll just walk in through the front door?"

"Won't be quite so easy," Whiskey said as they all stopped at the entrance, Kilo trying to tug the doors open. They were locked, apparently. Juliet gave an aggravated sigh and suggested that they just break through the glass, but the rest of them chimed in that that wouldn't be a very good idea.

"No need to draw the wolves' attention just yet," November said, arms crossed. "And anyway, don't you think it would be a bit -- well, _obvious_ if we could just waltz in off the street? Just like that? Surely it can't be that easy to get to the Dollhouse, not if they're trying hard to keep it a secret."

Juliet looked cross. "So what do you suggest then? Sit here and wait for the wolves to come to us?"

"We _are_ looking for the Dollhouse, right?" Victor asked, leaning on the railing of the front steps. "Not just the Rossum building, but the actual hiding place? Didn't Topher say something about it? I remember because at the time I thought it was strange -- "

"Underground," Whiskey said. "He said it was underground, but not just a secret."

November said, "So, what, it's _literally_ underground? How are we supposed to get to it?"

"Well, there must be some sort of way. But you're right, we're not going to be able to find it just walking in like this. There has to be some other sort of way in."

"There's a parking garage around the corner," Juliet said, pointing a bit to her left. "Maybe there's a way in through there."

There was; with all six of them crowding into the elevator, Sierra noticed that there was an unmarked button all the way down at the bottom of the panel. Whiskey saw that the paint on it seemed faded more than the others, indicating that it had gotten the most use. Whiskey held her breath as Sierra pressed the button, believing for one, irrational second that it was rigged; that a moment later a siren would go off announcing their arrival or the floor would drop out beneath them, sending them plunging to their deaths.

But the doors closed with a soft _ping_ and the elevator started moving a second later without even the slightest shudder or creak, and Whiskey let out a tiny sigh of relief. The damn parking garage, of all things, had put her on edge; it was so unnerving to see it empty and silent. She'd thought maybe it had been a trap, closing off the front door so they'd have to come in through the side, but they'd been met with nothing. Not even a lone wolf standing guard to scare off any accidental intruders.

And that in itself was worrying enough, but Whiskey was trying very hard not to think about it right now.

The elevator came to a halt and the doors _ping_ -ed again as they opened on what was presumably the ground floor.

The first thought that went through Whiskey's head was that it was emptier than she'd expected it to be. The second was that it was also _nicer_. Stepping out of the elevator and moving a few cautious feet forward, Whiskey saw that there was a small pond in the middle of the floor, lined with bright, white rocks. The lighting in the place was dim, but she could see smaller rooms branching off from the main one. Some of them had high, wide windows that displayed the contents of the room.

Most of them looked like offices. There was one that looked like it led down to a long hall and another that looked suspiciously like a doctor's office, with a small bookcase of manila folders and an examination style table. Some of the other rooms were too dark to see into. On her left was a tall staircase leading to an upper level that Whiskey couldn't quite see.

Suddenly there was a loud buzzing sound and November, by Whiskey's side, let out a small, surprised yelp. But it was only the lights coming on; Victor, some feet away, was standing next to the set of switches, looking both pleased and anxious.

"Sorry," he said. "Just thought we needed some light in here. I didn't -- "

"Wait," Sierra said suddenly, interrupting him. "Wait, I thought I heard something -- "

There was a light knocking sound coming from the direction of the long hallway. Whiskey, on guard, spun around, whipping her Colt out of its holster and pointing it in the direction the sound had originated from. Through the hallway came a woman, approximately Whiskey's age, though not as tall. She wore loose, tan pants and a dark teal shirt, the sleeves torn off at the shoulders and the collar ripped a little.

Coming to the edge of the main room, the girl laughed, the sound light and silvery.

She had long brown hair and lightly tanned skin. On each side she wore a revolver, outfitted in black leather holsters that wrapped up around her shoulders. Despite her small frame, she was clearly strong; crossing her arms, Whiskey could see the outline of her muscles, sharp and well-defined. She had a tattoo on her wrist that Whiskey only caught a glimpse of, but she didn't need to see it on order to know what it was.  
   
"Goodness gracious," Omega said, smiling slightly, leaning against the doorway. "Didn't expect to see _you_ here."

"Caroline," Whiskey murmured, relaxing. She loosened the grip on her Colt, lowering her arm, unable to keep from smiling a bit with relief. "Caroline, we've been looking for you. We've been travelling for the past year to find you. After Bennett said -- "

"Bennett?" Omega laughed, un-crossing her arms. "Oh, of course she would have been the one to send you after me. She never did forgive me for -- well, her little accident. But I suppose it was for the best," she said, pushing herself off the door frame and taking a few steps towards Whiskey and the others. "After all, she brought us back together."

She took another step towards Whiskey and November jumped forward, intercepting her. "Back _off_."

Omega grinned, showing too much teeth. "Oh, _you_ must be November. I've heard about you."

"Then you should know," November held up her gun in front of Omega's face, cocking it. "I've got a bit of a violent streak."

"Come now," Omega said, unfazed. "There's no need for that. Whiskey, can't you keep your little pet in check? Whiskey and I go way back," Omega smiled at November. "I'm sure she's told you all about it. Just her, me, and Bennett. Three best friends -- isn't that right, Claire?"

"Why'd you run off, Caroline?" Whiskey asked, around November.

"I would have thought you'd known, Claire. Considering how close we used to be."

"Enough with the games," Victor spoke up sharply from the back. "Why are you here, Omega? And what have you done with the new strain of the werewolf virus? And the antidote? We know that you have it."

"So many questions," Omega sounded almost bored. "Topher's fault, really. He's not very good with guns."

"So you admit it then," Juliet said, crossing her arms. "That you're part of this whole -- _conspiracy_ or whatever it is. You and Alpha and everyone you've managed to coerce along the way."

Omega chuckled. "Really now, 'conspiracy'? I can assure you there is no such thing going on. What happened was a social experiment gone wrong, conducted by people who had no idea what they were doing. But it wasn't all bad; from the ashes rose the phoenix, in the form of new wolves, genetically modified from the originals. A more perfect form."

"But I don't understand," Whiskey said. "Why would Rossum even want to do that in the first place? Why not just send out the cure to fix the mess they'd already started? What would they hope to gain? And I still can't see why you'd want to be a part of this, Caroline," Whiskey said, frowning, nervously toying with one of her belt loops. "What Rossum's doing -- they aren't helping anyone."

"It's not about helping other people," Kilo spoke up, her tone barely controlled. "It's about helping _themselves_."

"Survival of the fittest," Omega said, grinning wolfishly. "Isn't that how it always works out? The strongest rise to the top. Darwinism at work. That _is_ right, isn't it, Kilo?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in Kilo's direction, fingers toying with the revolver holstered at her side. "I'm sure John said the same things."

Kilo glowered at her. "John was a traitor and a murderer. He would have said anything to justify his actions."

"Pity, though," Omega said, with an exaggerated sigh. "That you killed him. He would have been a valuable asset to our plan. Tell me, what did you say to him, right before you put a bullet between his eyes? Did you even care about the fact that you killed him? Or were you just happy to be rid of another wolf?"

Before Juliet could grab her and hold her back, Kilo lunged at Omega, fists raised.

Omega easily dodged Kilo's first punch, but the second caught her on the side of her mouth. Omega gasped, surprised, stumbling back a few feet, her hand going up to her mouth; her fingers came away bloody. She scowled and straightened. Stepping forward, she struck Kilo square in the face with a punch. Kilo, caught off guard, didn't see Omega's foot come up; it collided with her stomach, sending her flying back some feet.

"Kilo!" Juliet cried, running over to her. Kilo was limp on the ground, blood seeping out from her nose and out of the corner of her mouth.

Whiskey had her gun up again in an instant, aimed at Omega's head. "Caroline," she snapped, furious and on edge. "We didn't come here to fight, but we can, if we need to. Is this really how you want to do it?"

"Oh, Claire," Omega said, with a roll of her eyes and a grin that showed teeth stained with fresh blood. "It's like you don't even know me at all sometimes." She reached behind her head, tying her hair back. "What was it that I always used to say to you? The needs of the few outweigh the needs of the many. And sometimes you have to shed a little blood in order to get something done. Remember Leo?"

Whiskey did. Leo Carpenter was a boy who had had a hopeless crush on Caroline while they were juniors at Freemont. Whiskey hadn't cared for him much, but Caroline had thought he was cute -- and it helped, of course, that he was eager to do anything Caroline asked of him, no matter what it was. He'd gotten shot during an attempted break in at the Rossum building in Freemont.

"Leo was an idiot," Whiskey said, struggling to keep her tone even. "He bought into your 'save the world' speeches and false promises. You just used him to get what you wanted -- it's not about shedding a little blood, it's about disposing of people to achieve your own goals."

Omega shrugged, nonchalant. "The ends justify the means."

"Fuck you," Kilo said from the floor, spitting out blood, Juliet helping her up. "So all of those people that you've slaughtered -- wolves and purebreds alike -- you think it was all justifiable? You talk about us, Omega, but you can't even see through the holes in your own twisted logic."

"Again," Omega sighed, and she seemed to be losing her patience now, tired of playing. "You still don't see the big picture. You're the ones who are the butchers. Alpha and I are the saviors."

November shot her.

It was a quick, sudden movement that caught everyone off-guard.The bullet passed through Omega's thigh and out the other side; they all watched in stunned silence as a crimson stain blossomed on her tan cargo pants, blood quickly soaking through the fabric and dripping onto the floor and Omega's boot.

Whiskey was shocked, caught between anger and anxiety. "What the _fuck_?" she growled at November, snatching for the gun and missing by a foot as November pulled away.

Omega stared down at the wound on her leg. "Ouch," she said at last, straightening up. "Discussion's over then, is it? Pity." She cocked her head back, looking at someone up behind them. "What do you think, Alpha?"

Whiskey snapped around to see a tall, athletic looking man with light blond hair gazing down at them from the balcony above, arms crossed over his chest. Behind him looked to be about ten or so wolves, still in their human form, male and female alike, dressed in the same tan cargo pants and dark shirts that Omega was sporting.

"Alpha," Whiskey breathed, subconsciously taking a step back.

"So this is the famous Claire Saunders," Alpha said, grinning madly. "Or do you prefer to be called Whiskey? It's cute, really -- your name. Rebellious. Strong. One could get the wrong sort of idea about you."

Whiskey glared up at him. "Oh?" she shot back. "And what would that be?"

But Alpha just grinned wider and turned his gaze to November. "Ah, the sidekick," he mocked. "November, November. Gun powder, treason, and plot. You're an angry one, aren't you? Bennett told us a great deal about you. Not much of a wolf fan, then?"

"Bennett?" Whiskey was taken aback. "Is she here?"

"All in good time," Alpha said, with a noncommittal flourish of his hands. Then, "To be honest, I'm really not one to discuss private matters in public. Perhaps we'd do best to escort our unwanted guests out, hmm?"

Four wolves sprang forward, leaping off the balcony and landing on the floor twenty feet below. They were already beginning to transform as they landed. It was the fastest transformation Whiskey had ever witnessed; in an instant they were their full wolf selves, growling and snapping at Whiskey and the others. These wolves were as big as the wolves they'd fought out in Tuscan, but these ones looked a bit sleeker, a little stronger.

And these wolves weren't as passive as the Tuscan wolves either.

A wolf with a tan coat and white paws was the first to attack; lunging far to Whiskey's left where Victor and Sierra were. She only had a moment to glance over in their direction before another wolf lunged towards her and November. It was one of the bigger wolves, with silvery gray fur and sharp, bright yellow eyes.

November stumbled back, shooting at it; Whiskey dodged to the side, lashing out with her knife and cutting it along its side. It distracted the wolf long enough for November to take a good shot at it, putting a bullet right in its heart. One down, too many more to go, Whiskey thought, gritting her teeth.

Victor and Sierra were now saddled with two other wolves and Kilo and Juliet were currently fighting with two wolves apiece.

"How fucking many of them are there?" November shouted with a grimace, ducking away from a wolf at the last second. Whiskey shot at it, hitting it near its shoulder. The wolf howled, the pitch sharp and high. Whiskey saw another wolf in the air out of the corner of her eye, just before it crashed into her, knocking them both to the ground.

She winced and gave a cry of pain as her shoulder collided with the hardwood floor, her left arm bleeding from where the wolf's claws had wounded her, compounding her injury from a few weeks earlier. She struggled with the wolf, gathering up her strength and kicking it up and off her. It stumbled back a few feet, but not enough for Whiskey to be completely free of it. She aimed her Colt and shot; the first and second shots missed completely, but the third tore off its ear. It yelped in pain and flew at her again, enraged.

The wolf slammed her back down to the ground, pinning her there. Once more Whiskey fought with it, taking care to avoid the wolf's fangs, which kept snapping at her neck. She managed to bring her Colt up to her stomach; pointing it straight up, she pulled the trigger, shooting the wolf in its abdomen.

That did the trick; the wolf cried out, swaying. It gave Whiskey the opportunity to shove it off her, before scrambling to her knees and putting two more bullets into it. One through through it's heart and the other buried in its head.

There was blood all over her now, from the wolf and the wound on her arm.

She shot another wolf dead as it came towards her, firing twice. It fell to the ground without so much as a whimper, blood pooling around it on the floor. On her right, November had finished off the wolf from before and was now grappling with a new, brown wolf. Even further away were Kilo and Juliet, fighting off three calico wolves.

Victor and Sierra, to Whiskey's left, were still struggling with the three same wolves, and a fourth was only a few yards away, circling and waiting for the right time to strike. There was no way they would be able to successfully fight the wolves off, not like this. Victor was an okay shot, but Sierra was lousy and was clearly only just managing to keep the encroaching wolves at bay.

"Sierra!" Whiskey shouted, firing a shot at the wolf nearest to her, distracting it. "You need to transform!"

"I can't!" Sierra cried back helplessly. Her eyes were wide with fear as she just barely dodged a wolf lunging in and snapping at her leg. "I'm not strong enough. I won't be able to control it -- "

Whiskey grunted as a wolf jumped at her, tearing up her leg with its claws. She kicked at it, emptying what was left of her round into the wolf. It fell to the floor, dead; Whiskey reached around to her box of ammo, quickly loading her Colt, spinning the chamber and snapping it back into place. "Just _do_ it," she yelled at Sierra. "You did it once before. You can do it again."

Sierra nodded and fired another couple of shots at the wolf attacking her. It gave a small yelp, jumping back. Sierra frowned, concentrating, readying herself. Whiskey turned away from her to grapple with another black wolf that had jumped at her. She jammed her knife into it's side, yanking up and across. The wolf's stomach opened up, spilling blood and intestines everywhere. It was already de-transforming as it fell to the ground, dying.

"Juliet!" Whiskey heard Kilo cry out, and then a long, angry wail.

Kilo was knelt over Juliet's body, the wolves completely forgotten about. Whiskey bolted over, shooting at a few wolves that made to strike at her. Juliet's throat was ripped out and she was bleeding out everywhere. Her shirt and the floor beneath her were soaked with blood and Kilo's hands were coated with it.

"Bastard," Kilo spit out at the wolf de-transforming in front of them, eyes bright with tears. "You fucking _bastard_ , I'll rip your fucking _heart_ out."

Alpha threw back his head, laughing. His mouth and teeth were crimson with blood. Tiny drops of blood dripped from his chin onto his shirt. "What, did you expect me to show you mercy?" he asked, sneering at them. "Survival of the fittest. There's no place in this world any longer for _Homo sapiens sapiens_. Only what comes _after_ them."

Kilo shot at him, three times. The second shot missed; the first hit him in the shoulder, the third went into his thigh. Alpha winced, taking a step back, but the grin never left his face.

"Is that all? A couple of silver bullets and you expect me to fear you? Come on now, Kilo," he said, licking his lips. "I expected more of a fight from you. All of that reputation and nothing to back it up with."

"Fuck you," Kilo said, scrambling to her feet and lunging at him; Alpha blocked her punches with ease, grabbing her by her shirt and throwing her back several feet. Kilo landed hard on her side, crying out in pain. Whiskey shot forward, knife in hand, but Alpha dodged her attack as well, jumping back.

"Let's play tag," he said, grinning. "You're it."

He took off running in the opposite direction, towards the stairs. He was heading for higher ground, Whiskey knew, where he could have an advantage. He must have been going to Omega too, she thought; Omega had vanished a moment after the fight had began. Of course, Whiskey thought, rage boiling within her. That was so typical of Caroline, always running away and letting other people fight for her.

November was behind her, tending to Kilo, who was trying to push herself off the floor and failing miserably.

"Watch her," Whiskey told November, who gave a sharp nod. "Sierra! Victor!" Whiskey called across the room to where Sierra, in her wolf form and spotting a shiny golden coat, was bending over a fallen wolf, her teeth buried in its neck, blood staining her fur.

Victor glanced up, looking back and forth between Whiskey and the two remaining wolves. "What?"

"I need you to circle in over here," Whiskey shouted, pointing at where Kilo and November were. "Juliet's dead and Kilo's down and out. I need you all together. I'm going after Omega and Alpha."

"What, _alone_?" November said behind her. "Claire, you can't. Let me -- "

" _No_ ," Whiskey said forcefully. She looked down at November, willing her to understand. "November, you can't -- okay? You need to stay here with Kilo and Victor and Sierra and make sure they're safe. They _need_ you," she stressed, quickly checking to make sure she had enough ammo still left. "You're the best they've got."

"And what about you?"

"I can handle myself," Whiskey said, turning.

November called after her, but Whiskey didn't listen. Her whole focus had been narrowed to a single point: Omega. There were still so many unanswered questions. She had to at least try, had to at least attempt to make Caroline see that what she was doing was wrong. The Caroline she knew could be ruthless, but she was sensible too. If only Whiskey could --

She forced those thoughts out of her mind as well. She'd have to take out Alpha if she wanted to get to Omega. She needed to concentrate on that first.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she followed the thin trail of blood leading up and around the balcony. On the other side was a door; the blood trail continued beyond that point. Whiskey, gun in hand, threw open the door and ran up, unsure of what she would be faced with when she found Omega.

On the fourth floor, the blood trail veered off towards a side door. There was nothing indicating what it led to. Whiskey took a breath and steeled herself, pulling the door open.

It was an office.

An office that had clearly fallen into disarray when the original owner abandoned it, but it was an office nonetheless, complete with a row of different sizes and shapes of alcohol bottles lining a table on the other side of the room. Omega was sitting on one of the dark, plush chairs near the high floor to ceiling windows, sipping a glass of clear colored liquid. Vodka, probably, Whiskey thought, absently.

"Are you going to run again?" Whiskey asked her, panting. "Or are you actually going to stand up and fight for once?"

Omega let out a deep sigh, finishing off what was left in her glass and setting it down on the small table in front of her. "Claire, you know I've always been a fighter. Even now I am, even though you don't think the same. I've been fighting since day one."

"For _what_?" Whiskey snapped, impatient. "All you've ever cared about was yourself. You never gave a damn about helping those who really needed it."

"I _did_ care about them," Omega shot back, pushing herself out of her chair with thinly veiled rage. "You've just been too blind to see that, Claire. You were always like that. Only concerned with what's in front of you at this very moment, never able to see the big picture. You think that we're destroying the human race. You see the wolves as simply as a virus, a plague that needs to be eradicated. But we -- we are the future."

Whiskey scowled, flexing her fingers which hovered only centimeters away from where her Colt was holstered. "You're a liar. How is this helping people, Omega? Rossum is accountable for leaking the werewolf disease. Do you know how many deaths even a _single_ wolf is responsible for?"

"That was a tragic, but unavoidable side effect," Omega said. "Rossum simply needed a large testing pool to draw from; they didn't realize how quickly the disease would spread or just what sort of consequences their act would have. I was _furious_ about that , Claire. I honestly was. But then I realized, why fight it? Why not embrace it? After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"So what, you became a wolf. You let them test their refined disease on you. And for what end?"

"Power," a voice said, behind them.

It was Alpha, stepping out of the shadows and leaning against the wall.

Whiskey was momentarily stunned. "What?"

"It's really quite simple," Alpha said, sounding almost annoyed that Whiskey hadn't already figured things out. "Rossum creates the werewolf virus. Rossum creates the _cure_ for the werewolf virus. Thousands of people are saved, return to their normal purebred lives. But what's changed? Absolutely nothing."

"Even with wolves in power now, it's still the same world as it was before," Omega spat out, frowning. "It doesn't matter who's running what; in the end, it all boils down to the fact that they have something no one else has. Power."

"Oh, but we've taken care of that little problem," Alpha said, grinning wildly. "Because you see, once everyone is a purebred, that's when we'll reveal ourselves. Perfect forms of the perfect virus. Don't you get it? _We'll_ be the ones in control now. We can make this world into whatever we want it to be, because we're the ones with all the power. No one will dare touch us."

Whiskey swallowed, her mouth dry. "You were planning on staging another coup," she said, after a minute, still a bit stunned by these startling revelations. "You were going to overthrow the government and then scare everyone into following and supporting you. They'd have to listen to you, of course, because you had what they didn't."

"So you see," Omega said, turning to the windows and resting her hands on the glass for support, peering out. "Everyone thinks that we're hurting the world, when really, we're the ones who are actually trying to save it. We're what this world needs; people who actually care and want to make it a better place."

There was a soft _pop_ of gunfire from behind her; Whiskey turned and saw November in the doorway, gun smoking, and Alpha clutching his chest and staggering a few feet forward, leaning on the wall for desperate support. Blood dripped through his fingers.

"That's sick," November said, turning her gaze to Omega. "You think that you're helping people, but you're not. You're just as bad the people you claim to hate. It's like they say, isn't it? The revolutionist dons the cloak of the dictator he overthrew."

Omega just smirked.

And then Alpha lunged at November. In the split second when they'd turned their attention away from him, he'd transformed. He was stronger in wolf form -- _much_ stronger -- and they all knew it. Whiskey watched in horror as he collided with November, knocking her into the wall. She slumped to the ground; he was on top of her in an instant, tearing her with his claws and trying to bite her.

"No!" Whiskey cried out and tried to run to help her, but Omega sprang in front of her, blocking her path.

"Leave them."

Whiskey struck out, her fist colliding with Omega's face, reopening the already healing cut on her lip from her earlier fight with Kilo, Omega growled, eyes flashing. She recovered instantly, punching back; her fist cuffed Whiskey on the side of her jaw and she heard the sickening crack of bones. She stumbled back, clutching her Colt with one hand and her mouth with the other.

Omega laughed. "I forgot how weak purebreds are," she said, grinning and wiping the blood away from her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm surprised you even managed to last thing long, Claire. You and that simpering Bennett. Too smart for her own fucking good."

Above the sound of Omega's taunting, Whiskey could hear the sounds of Alpha and November fighting only just across the room. Omega's angry snarls mixed with November's cries of pain -- and, Whiskey thought, fear -- and she felt something bubble and burst out of her, rage and hatred and trepidation all at once. She lunged at Omega with a shout, but Omega simply sidestepped away from her attack.

"I'll fucking _kill_ you!" Whiskey said, lunging at Omega again, who once more dodged her attack. "If November dies, I'll fucking kill you, I swear to it."

"Kill me, Claire?" Omega chuckled, smiling wickedly. "How are you going to do that, exactly? You can't even protect the ones you care about; Bennett, and now your little pet November. Tell me, Whiskey: how much of a beating do you think she can withstand? Hopefully more than Bennett; absolutely pathetic, especially for a wolf. But don't worry, we made it last as long as possible."

"What did you do with her?" Whiskey cried, her injured arm and jaw sending sparks of of pain up and down her body. Her right arm was sore and weak for holding her gun up. She couldn't even bring herself to think about what had happened to Bennett. Bennett, the cleverest one of them -- she needed Omega to say it. She couldn't bear it otherwise. "Tell me!" Whiskey demanded, shooting at Omega and missing by a foot.

"You take something of mine, I take something of _yours_ ," Omega said, angry now, clenched fists at her side. "Your wolf --- _Sierra_ ," she spit the name out. "She killed Boyd. Lovely Boyd who had taken me in, showed me how I could be strong. She killed him, so _I_ killed Bennett. Do you know what it feels like, Claire? To have one wolf rip another to pieces?"

Whiskey shot at her again, this time grazing her shoulder; Omega barely even flinched. She lunged at Whiskey, transforming in mid-air; they tumbled to the ground, slamming into one of the glass tables near the sofa and chairs, knocking it over and shattering it to pieces. Whiskey felt tiny pieces of glass embed themselves into her arms and back and winced, trying to shove Omega off her.

Whiskey grunted, slashing at Omega desperately with her knife, the blade slicing into her. Omega yelped in pain, but managed to knock Whiskey's knife away anyway, pinning her arms to the ground. Whiskey struggled against her, kicking up; one well-place kick caught Omega square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

It was enough for Whiskey to wrestle her away, kicking at Omega again and sending her flying back a few feet.

Omega's pink tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth; she was clearly winded and badly injured. They both were; Whiskey's left arm hung useless by her side and she could barely see through the pain in her jaw. It was obvious that Caroline wasn't going to do anything less than fight to the death for this. It was then that she realized, with a sinking heart, that this wasn't the Caroline she'd known before. Maybe she'd never actually known the real Caroline. Maybe it was just an act the whole time, a ploy to trick Whiskey into doing whatever Caroline asked, just like she'd done with so many others.

"Fuck you," she said, through gritted teeth, still gripping her Colt tightly.

Omega crouched and sprang at her again, this time catching Whiskey off-guard by de-transforming as she came at her. Whiskey gave a cry of surprise as Omega, back to human form, landed in front of her, a long, bright knife in hand. She slashed at Whiskey's stomach, drawing blood.

"What -- ?" she said, shocked, eyes wide. "But how -- ?"

"We're not like those pitiful original wolves," Omega said, stepping forward quickly and wrapping her hand around Whiskey's throat, pushing her back against the wall. "Haven't you figured that out yet, Claire? We are superior to every other species on Earth. We can do everything the original wolves can't and more. And that included being able to shift between human and wolf form without losing anything -- like our weapons; it makes us awfully good in a fight."

Whiskey struggled against her, clawing at Omega's hand around her throat. Omega's fingers tightened harder around her it and Whiskey saw the edges of her world beginning to blur and grow dark. Over Omega's shoulder, she could see November still struggling against Omega -- but her arms bloody and face contorted in pain. It was obvious she wasn't going to last much longer on her own.

She thought desperately, _Maddie_ , and tried to kick out at Bennett, but the grip around her neck was too tight and she could already feel herself beginning to fade.

"I don't need to be in wolf form to kill you, Claire," Omega snarled, pressing harder. "In fact, it's much more satisfying to do it this way. I want to feel the life drain from you right between my hands."

 _No_ , Whiskey tried to say, but it was impossible. She couldn't speak, she couldn't breathe. She felt her Colt slipping from fingers, her grip growing ever weaker. She had to fight back; November needed her. This couldn't --

There was the sound of a gun being fired and then a high, sharp bark of pain. Whiskey and Omega both looked up in the direction the sounds had come from. Alpha was hunched over November in wolf form, yellow eyes wide and vacant. November gave him a small push and he slipped off her, falling to the side, already dead and de-transforming.

"Alpha!" Omega cried out, shocked, and in that one instant, she loosened her grip just slightly around Whiskey's neck.

It was all Whiskey needed.

In one swift, fluid motion, she drew her gun up, cocking it and squeezing the trigger. The sound of the gun going off was muffled by the barrel being pressed against Omega's chest, but she felt the whole shot reverberate through her arm from the kickback. Omega's eyes went wide and her mouth opened in a silent cry of surprise.

"Claire -- "

She crumpled to the ground, dead. Whiskey collapsed as well, coughing as oxygen flooded back into her lungs, hands going to her throat, rubbing at it absently. Her head was throbbing and her heart was racing; it felt like being under water and finally surfacing, gasping for air. She glanced over at Omega, who was staring up at the ceiling, eyes glassy and blank, her knife a few feet away, guns still in their holsters. The front of her shirt was stained bright red with her blood, which was slowly pooling underneath her body.

Whiskey reached for Omega, running her hands over her face and closing Omega's eyes. She couldn't look at her, not like this.

There was a small groan on the other side of the room -- November. She was lying in a puddle of blood, her gun to one side. She was barely moving; from where she was, Whiskey couldn't even see if her eyes were open or not. She called November's name, but there was no response. No, she thought wildly, suddenly panicked. No, it couldn't --

She scrambled to her feet, running over to where November was, slipping a bit on the bloody floor as she ran.

"Maddie," Whiskey cried, dropping to her knees and pulling November's head into her lap, pushing back her hair with bloody hands. "Maddie, Maddie, no. Please, don't. You can't -- "

"Hey," November murmured, looking at her through half-closed eyes. "It's okay. You know, don't you, that I -- "

Whiskey shushed her, peppering her face with frantic kisses. "Just be quiet now, Maddie," she mumbled against the side of November's head, pulling her in even closer. "I know, I know."

November sighed, eyes fluttering closed just as Victor and Sierra came bounding up the stairs, shouting and barrelling into the room. They were both bloody and bruised and completely out of breath. Whiskey looked up at them helplessly through blurry eyes.

"Please," she said, feeling the pain from her injuries starting to kick in fully now. Her whole body was aching and the room was beginning to spin. "Please," she said again, gripping November tightly. "You need to help -- November's been -- she's -- I don't know what Alpha did to her -- I can't -- I used to be a doctor, I should be able to fix her, but I -- I can't remember how, and -- "

"Hey, hey, it's all right." Sierra murmured softly, crouching down next to Whiskey and trying to pull November away from her. "Whiskey, you've got to let us -- "

The world went black.

 

;;

 

November opened her eyes.

"Oh thank God," Whiskey sighed, leaning over her, relieved. "When I saw you lying there, in that giant pool of blood, I thought maybe -- "

"Nah, I'm okay," November managed weakly, her voice hoarse. "It's not so bad. It was mostly Alpha's blood anyway. Not so much mine."

Whiskey grabbed her, hugging her tightly, not even caring if it hurt her jaw to smile. "Jesus fucking Christ," she said against November's neck, into her hair. "I was so worried about you. You stupid kid, you shouldn't have followed me and tried to take on Alpha by yourself. If he had -- "

"But he didn't," November said into Whiskey's shoulder. "I'll be okay."

"Omega's dead," Whiskey told her, pulling back some. "I killed her, right after you finished off Alpha."

November frowned, reaching up to cup Whiskey's face with one hand; Whiskey winced at the touch but didn't pull away. "I'm sorry," November said quietly. "I know that you -- that you didn't want it to end like this."

"It's okay," Whiskey said, steadying herself, ignoring the slight sting of tears in her eyes. "The way she was when we finally found her . . . She wasn't the same. I don't know if it was because of the wolf virus or what Rossum told her or if she'd always been like that and I just had been too blind to see it. But she was horrible, November. I couldn't let her live."

"So strong," November mumbled, sitting up a little and resting her forehead against Whiskey's own. "That's why I love you." She leaned up and Whiskey bent down, their lips meeting in the middle. Whiskey couldn't remember a time when November had tasted sweeter, even with her sore and bruised lips.

After a moment, she helped November to her feet, both of them leaning on the side of the Impala for support. Whiskey's jaw still ached something awful and her left arm was bandaged up so tightly that she could barely even move it properly. Her clothes were dirty and torn and clung to her skin with sweat and drying blood. Sierra and Victor had cleaned her up a bit though while she'd been unconscious, wiping off her face and pulling her hair back into a neat, simple ponytail, keeping it back from her face.

Kilo was sitting in the back of her truck, the hatch open. Victor had told Whiskey that they hadn't been able to pry Kilo away from Juliet, even knowing that she was dead. They'd brought Juliet's body outside and put it in Kilo's truck and covered it over with a blanket out of respect.

"I'll give her a proper burial," Kilo told Whiskey quietly, looking up and meeting Whiskey's eyes as November leaned against the Impala, trying to catch her breath. "I know where to do it. In Washington, where we first met. There's an old safe house up there, no one around for miles and miles. You can smell the ocean from there. She -- she'd like that." Kilo's eyes were red and her face was streaked with tears. It was the most emotion that Whiskey had ever seen her express and she felt a swell of anger, guilt, and sadness well up inside her suddenly.

"I'm sorry," she said, after a moment.

Kilo shrugged and looked away. "It's okay, isn't it? Because she's not a wolf. Right?"

"Kilo -- " Whiskey began helplessly.

"You know what she'd used to say?" Kilo sniffed, swiping at her tears. "She'd say, 'Mandy I'm glad there are wolves. Even though they're scum and I hate them, I'm glad still, of their existence. Because no matter what has happened, in the end, they led me to you. So you've at least got to give them credit for that.'"

"Come with us," Whiskey said, leaning on the side of Kilo's truck and reaching out to place her hand on Kilo's arm. "I know it won't be the same, but we -- we should stay together. You shouldn't have to be alone. It'll be safer if you join up with us. We can help each other."

Kilo shook her head. "I can't, Whiskey," she said, standing up and climbing out of the back, slamming the hatch of the truck closed behind her. "And it's not just because we don't see eye to eye, you and me. That's a part of it, but not all of it. The truth is, Whiskey, I'm just tired of fighting. I just want to find some place to stay permanently."

"But the wolves -- there's so many of them now. You could die."

"What will come will come," Kilo shrugged. "I can hold my own, Whiskey. I did it before you. Before Juliet, too."

Whiskey shrugged as well, kicking absentmindedly at a few pebbles on the ground. "If that's what you want to do, Kilo," she said slowly, after some time. "If that's what you really want to do, then I guess it doesn't make any sense to argue with you about it. I just don't think -- well, do you really want to die alone?"

Kilo smiled at her. She put her hand on Whiskey's shoulder. "Oh, Whiskey," she said. "Don't you know? In the end, we all die alone."

Whiskey sniffed and nodded.

"I am going to miss you all though," Kilo sighed, glancing around at the group. "Even you, Sierra, a little. You're not half bad. It was a pretty decent ride while it lasted, huh? You accomplished your goal and we accomplished ours."

"Except for the cure and the new virus strain," Victor spoke up, his arm around Sierra's waist. "We still don't know what happened to them. Alpha and Omega never got a chance to tell us before they died. They could be anywhere. We're going to have to find them if we ever want there to be peace again someday."

Kilo grinned, wincing a little as she did so. "Well, then, I'll leave you to do that," she said, pulling open her truck door and climbing in. She held two fingers up to her forehead, giving Whiskey a mock salute. "I'll see you around sometime, I'm sure," she said, starting the engine.

Whiskey smiled and took a step back, as the Ford pulled away from the curb, rolling out into the middle of the street and quickly gaining speed. Whiskey watched until the truck had disappeared into the horizon. She sighed, falling back against the car beside November. She was exhausted; she'd only just realized it. They'd have to get out of Los Angeles tonight, but after that, she planned on sleeping for a week straight.

It felt like more than just a year had passed. She could remember the night that she and November first left Glen River, completely unsure of what they would find in Los Angeles, not even knowing if the rumors were true. Not even knowing if Bennett was right about Caroline being mixed up in all of that. Bennett; she felt a wave of sadness wash over her, remembering what Caroline had said. _You take something of mine, I take something of yours._

She couldn't help but wonder why Bennett had helped them in the first place. They'd been close before the outbreak, but that night when they spoke, a year prior, had been the first time they'd seen each other in years. And then Bennett had tracked them, had found them Kilo and Juliet. Maybe she knew all along what was going to happen, Whiskey thought, defeated.

"Hey," November said, touching her arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Whiskey said, straightening up. "I'm just tired."

"There's a long trip ahead of us," Sierra said, resting her head on Victor's shoulder. "We have to find the cure and the other werewolf virus strain. It isn't going to be easy."

"No, it isn't," Whiskey said, undoing her hair from her ponytail and pulling it back into a tight bun. "And in some regards, it's going to be a lot more difficult than what we just finished. We don't know what to expect or what we're going to find. We might not make it out."

Victor shrugged and turned to Sierra. "I don't think we mind, do we?"

Sierra shook her head. "No."

November smiled and stretched. "To tomorrow then," she said cheerfully, reaching into the Impala for the pack of smokes and matches that Whiskey had left on the dashboard before they'd gone into the Rossum building. She lit up, inhaling sharply and flashing a grin in Whiskey's direction before climbing onto the hood of the Impala.

"We'll leave in twenty minutes," Whiskey said to Victor and Sierra, glancing over at where November was sitting. "I think we've deserved a few moments of rest, don't you?"

"We'll be back," Victor said, turning and pulling Sierra with him. Whiskey watched them walk over to the front of the Rossum building, sitting down on one of the benches on the little green right before the main entrance, under the shade of giant, overgrown oak tree.

Whiskey sighed and climbed up on the hood of the Impala beside November, deftly plucking the cigarette from November's fingers and taking a long, satisfying drag of it. The wind picked up slightly, a cool, fall breeze; Whiskey watched it catch the smoke from the end of the smoldering cigarette, carrying it off into the distance.

They were quiet for a long time, until the cigarette burned down to the filter and November flicked the ends of it away, pulling out two more cigarettes. She lit them both, handing one over to Whiskey with a smile. The afternoon was beginning to fade into evening, the sun sinking low behind the city's abandoned skyscrapers.

"Well kid," Whiskey said at last, exhaling a mouthful of smoke with a sigh. "Looks like we're not going to be done just yet."

"Fine with me," November told her, with a shrug and a smile. "I've never been one to shy away from a fight."

"No," Whiskey agreed, leaning over and stealing a quick kiss. "Not ever."


End file.
